


The Fur Cloak

by Carbocat



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Eloping, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Pre-Canon, elopement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:57:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbocat/pseuds/Carbocat
Summary: Dolokhov knew a thing or two about elopements and the value of a fur cloak when running away in the snow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could almost say that this is a companion piece to my fic Nobody Wins a War because the writing style is similar but they both stand very much on their own.

Loss was cold.

Like icy fingers in threadbare gloves and winter winds through broken glass windows. Like blue lips, and hacking coughs, and the night his father went to sleep early and woke up never. He knew loss in empty eyes and stony faces, he knew the cold well.

Loss drained the warmth from the soul, the world, and his mother’s brown eyes. Loss left him poor, and fatherless, and so, so cold. And then he met a prince with fur lining his pockets and eyes so alive and warm, and frightened.

He met a prince that offered his gloves in exchange for a place to hide from a father so cruel, and cold, and distant apart from closed fist and frost-bitten words. He met a prince who lost his mother like he lost his father and he declared to that prince that he was fierce like fire, like his father before him, and he would burn the world before he allowed it to hurt him.

And for a moment, they both believed it.

He met a prince, so warm, and handsome, and grateful, and he brought him home to his broken windows and his dwindling wealth. He showcased his cold and empty life in all its glory and he waited for the cold crackle of mocking laughter. He waited and he watched as Anatole turned to his mother with a practiced greeting and a bow reserved for royalty. He waited and he watched as Anatole declared to her with such _fire_ that Fedya was his best friend now.

He met a prince and the world felt less cold.

He was ten and Anatole would be taller than him someday. He was ten and Anatole was eight, and charming, and it was his brilliant idea to raise enough coins to fix the broken window with a violin and guitar double act. Anatole was eight and the world could be at his fingertips but he chose to spent it, day in and day out, with Dolokhov in the cold market.

He was ten and Anatole was eight, and they played the three traditional ballads they both knew. They laughed, and danced the jig they’d seen the travelers do, and they collected their coins in Anatole’s case. For a moment, they were both so happy and warm.

Anatole was eight and the violin was ripped from his hands violent and sudden. Anatole was eight and his eyes were wide and his breathing stopped, and he was so still that Dolokhov feared he was frozen. Anatole was eight and his father’s hands were huge and curling into the back of son’s collar, shaking sense into him.

Anatole was frightened, and Dolokhov was frozen, and Vasili Kuragin’s face was a slab of cold ice and his eyes were a fire that only destroyed. His voice like the hiss of steam, “You are a prince, not some wanderer’s child! What is this madness, Anatole?”

It was not a question but Anatole was _eight_ , and his hands were shaking and his mouth was stammering. He spoke of broken windows, and Dolokhov’s cold hands, and his dead father, and Mama always said – _shut up, shut up, shut up, Anatole,_ he wanted to say. He said nothing, frozen.

Anatole was eight and a child, and Dolokhov had never seen a child slapped so hard before but it stopped the words. He was frozen and Anatole’s eyes were the failed attempt to freeze a thawed river. He was frozen and Anatole was led away. He was frozen, he did not follow.

He was ten and Anatole had blue and purple fingerprints pressed into his neck the next day. He was ten and overcome with guilt. He was ten and Anatole was eight and neither of them said anything about it as they counted the coins in the bottom of his violin case. It was not enough but that was okay, Anatole told him so happy, and warm, and _bruised_. They’d go to the market in the east, he told him. His father didn’t frequent that one.

Loss was cold and windows, they broke.

He was thirteen and short for his age, dressed in the gloves and ear muffs of a prince, and Hélène. She was breathtaking and beautiful, and meticulous and cold under a façade of warm smiles, and he did not see it. He was awkward in a front hall too grand, feet sweating in socks stolen from Anatole’s boots, and she read him like a book in a single glance.

Her voice was the melted soft richness of chocolate from her first _hello_ , luring him into a foolish comfort as she told him that her dear brother was still in his lessons – _so many lessons, what was it today? Piano?_ – and her cold hands and painted fingernails were the anchor and guide that led him through unlively stone arches to the fire in the drawing room. She was the heavy weight that settled against his side on the couch as she cooed, _you’re so cold, you poor thing_.

She was the ghost of hot breath against his cheek, and the soft hands that caressed his jaw as she stole his first kiss and he allowed her to take the second one. She was the hum against his lip, and the grin that had nothing to do with his inexperience. Her hands burnt like frostbite through the fabric of his shirt.

A ball of warmth curled inside of his stomach, twisted and knotted, and flushed his cheeks as she punctuated every prying word with a kiss to his lips, his nose, his cheek, his neck. Asking with such _knowing_ just what it was about him that made her brother run off every afternoon to see him. He told her, _I don’t know._

And he didn’t. He truly didn’t but she did because Anatole told him that his sister knew everything. Her eyes were the same cold and calculated ice of her father’s and all the warmth inside him bled from his bones as she asked down her nose with chilly curiosity what it was that was so damn special about him. He told her, _I am nothing special_.

 _Are you sure._ Her voice was brittle chocolate as frozen as the black lakes of her eyes, and he felt as if she knew something he didn’t. _Anatole thinks you are so special. There must be some reason. He tires of his toys so easily but you, he is enraptured by you._

He bit his tongue and he did not tell her that loss was cold and Anatole was warm gloves and soup snuck from the kitchen. He did not tell her about Anatole’s declaration of friendship all those years ago, about the market place and the slap, and the guilt that still step him. He did not tell her that Anatole was the match that lit the fire and without him, Dolokhov would freeze to death.

He did not mention that it was Anatole that was special because he was a furnace and a fire in this stupid winter hellscape. Because she knew, she _knew_ , and if he admitted it than it would have value and if it had value than it could be taken from him.

Hélène was like her father, the same black eyes and the same cold expression, but Hélène was worse. She was curious of all the strings and what happened if she plucked just one of them. She was worse because Anatole loved her more than anything and would forgive her for the ones she cut. But Dolokhov would not, he would fall, and die, and _freeze_. If he admitted it than it’d be taken and people like her, they liked to watch the world freeze over.

He told her instead, _Anatole is a child_.

“Oh, I know, _Fedya_.” Hélène’s voice was an ice pick against his nerves, it hurt and it chilled, and he wanted to leave. “My brother speaks so highly of you, like he has a little crush. It’s...a _dor_ able.”

Loss was cold, Hélène was freezing.

“Hélène, mon cher?” Spoke from the doorway, warm and confused, and gnawing at the raw skin of his thumb absentmindedly as he watched the way she folded out of Dolokhov’s lap like a cat. “What is it that you are doing to Fedya?”

“Just getting to know your friend, Toto,” She practically purred, twirling onto her feet as she stood. She crossed the cold floor like a ghost, caressing her brother’s face with cold fingers and a kiss against his forehead. “Do share, brother, he is an interesting one.”

The years passed into the next and seasons bled into each other. The only constant was the chill in his bones, and Anatole. And the bruises.

He was fifteen and freezing, pacing the narrow paths between headstones as Anatole spoke in whispered proses to cold indifferent stone. His tears were frozen to his cheeks, eyes vibrant against black bruised skin, and the cut on his lip was a sluggish dip from being worried through sharp teeth. The world was broken and it broke all those in it.

Anatole looked from the stone to Dolokhov with his tears and his blood, and all the determination left in Russia. He was fast to his feet, suddenly in front of him, and his arms squeezed tight at Dolokhov’s shoulders. His eyes were crazed, shining with manic glee, and he smiled, _Fedya._

_Fedya, let’s run away._

A laugh so startling and warm bubbled form a broken heart in a beautiful chest and it chilled Dolokhov to the bone as Anatole shook him excitedly, _It is perfect! We leave in the night for Moscow. We never look back, just the two of us. We don’t need anybody else, Fedya. No one can hurt us in Moscow, Fedya._

Anatole was rambling in vague details and half-thought tangents – a troika driver all too happy to help, the funds he could gather, _there is no death in Moscow, Fedya, we can find happiness there_ – and he was so damn alive, and excited, and broken.

“Anatole.” He stopped him, grabbing his gloved hands within his own and squeezing the bony fingers to stop this madness. It _was_ madness. “Anatole, think this through.”

“I have thought it through,” He breathed a breathless whisper. “I am so miserable, Fedya, I will not survive the sadness in my heart.”

 _No,_ he should have said. _No, absolutely not. See reason, what a reckless fool you are,_ he should have said. _It would never work_ , he should have said. He opened his mouth and all those soul-crushing words sat on the tip of his tongue like hot coal and he spoke, “Like some kind of elopement? Don’t be silly.”

“Like an elopement,” Anatole agreed, unwilling or unable to see how ridiculous it was. “There is happiness over the horizon, Fedya. I promise you that.”

His heart was a breaking furnace in his chest, bellowing out of his mouth with smoke and words. He should have said no, he should have said nothing. He said, “Not Moscow, we’d have to leave Russia.”

The grin like broken ice and the first warm breeze of summer, Anatole nodded all too readily, “We will go to Poland.”

The feather touch of warm lips against his cheek, a clap on his shoulder, and the regret that burnt out any fire in his chest. Dolokhov felt cooling stones, he felt cold.

Hélène was a circling bear and he was an open wound. She was the sharp edge of a sword pressed against his spine and she was there, constantly. A curious observer, watching with eyes that knew everything so he was not surprised by Anatole’s bedroom door being pushed open late into the night nor by the dip in the bed on his side.

He did not open his eyes, feeling first the tickle of curled hair against his face and then the kiss pressed to his lips, whispering against them, “I know you are awake, Dolokhov.”

He turned his head away from her, getting a kiss on the cheek for the effort before finally opening his eyes, “What is it you want, Hélène?”

Anatole slept like the dead, knees drawn to his chest and breathing a peaceful even hum. Dolokhov was envious because he did not want to deal with this. She spoke with her hands running through his hair and the moonlight reflecting in her eyes, “Anatole asked me for a loan today.”

“You have no money.”

“I have Papa’s money,” She shrugged, the motion of her fingers gave a false sense of security but he would allow himself to fall for that again. “And I can get him as much as he needs without much question but I have questions of my own. What does my darling brother need with ten thousand rubles?”

Hélène, the ice princess she tried so gallantly to be always melted in Anatole’s heat. She was concerned and he was an honorable man. They knew each other too well, “It is not for him.”

“Is it not?” She asked, a ghost of hot breath against his skin and fingers curling into his hair. He could close his eyes and pretend that it was not her breath or her hand, he could give into a longing he refused to acknowledge, “Would you lie to me, Dolokhov?”

“It is for me,” He said truthfully, his voice as low as the heat pooling in his stomach. It was not a lie, it was not a lie, he was selfish and he wanted to run away. It was not a lie, he wanted Anatole for himself, it was not a lie. “I am so cold.”

Hélène had seen his broken window and his measly home. She had scoffed at his shabby clothes and his worn boots, and she trekked across town at the request of her brother with arms filled with warm blankets and she laid them on his bedroom floor with only a shiver. He was cold, freezing constantly, she believed him.

He did not need to peel open his eyes to know it, just allow her to tuck the furs around him, allow her entrance to his mouth and allow her fingers to wander. She believed him because he was honorable and she’d get the money because he needed it. They would leave the next night and she and everything else would be in their dust. Everything would be okay when they left.

“I can’t.”

“Anatole,” He breathed a breathless whisper, hand tight around Anatole’s dainty wrist and snow soaking into the tear in his boot. Freedom was so damn close he could feel it. “We have to leave.”

“It’s cold.” In only a night shirt and trousers made for warmer weather, he was shivering and almost translucent in the moonlight. He looked like he was about to cry, _was_ crying because his voice wobbled, “I need – we need better coats, Dolokhov.”

He could see Balaga’s troika in the distance, could see the flickering light of Vasili’s study’s lanterns, “We cannot go back, Anatole. We’ll get caught.”

“If I leave than I’ll never seen Hélène again.”

“You can write to her, she can come visit,” He insisted, Anatole’s pulse was a racehorse beneath his numb fingers. They needed to move. “Come on, Anatole, we will find happiness in Poland.”

“I’ll never see my mother again,” He whispered and Dolokhov held harsh words behind clenched teeth. He wanted to scream, to curl his fist into Anatole’s bleached hair and scream that she was dead, she left him here and she would not come back but they could find warmth in Poland’s sun. They could be happy. “This is horribly stupid.”

Anatole tugged on his sleeve, tears and moonlight on his winter pale face, “Please, Fedya, let’s go back. This is a mistake.”

He pulled off his thin jacket and draped it across Anatole’s wracking shoulders, said nothing, felt nothing, and he led him through the service door. He wrapped furs around him and pressed a kiss against his forehead, “It will be better in the morning, Anatole, sleep.”

He watched the shaking subside with a hollow wintery cold beneath his skin, he let the eternal cold freeze back over his heart. Anatole slept like the dead and Dolokhov felt like one of them as he pulled his coat back on and walked down the grand stairs to pay Balaga for the services they no longer needed.

Hélène paced lazy circles in front of the door, the ends of her dressing gown soaking and dripping snow onto the rugs. She did not look up, did not ask, “You were going to take him.”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“Pol _and_ ,” He reported, his voice cracking and breaking like it hadn’t done in years. He shook his head when her eyes snapped to him, felt the weight of disappointment fall onto his shoulders and force him to the carpeted floor beneath him.

He expected anger, fiery red hot burning anger but Hélène’s hands were gentle and cold on his shoulder and his jaw. Her kiss was soft and tender and honest against his lips. A cold comfort but a comfort nonetheless.

He was cold and confused, and crying, when she pressed her forehead to his and whispered with such raw vulnerability, “I wish you would have gone. I cannot protect him here, I don’t know how.”

Dolokhov spoke of the promise he made, of hiding him in the market place and his oath to burn the world. He spoke, his voice in splinters, about his failure to keep even that promise. He spoke of the cold and Hélène held him tight, and kissed him, and led him to her bedroom and she warmed him beneath her sheets.

Dolokhov was cold, war was colder.

The boy that he’d been when he hugged his mother goodbye, that thought he knew so much but knew nothing of the horrors of war, and blood, and the way men sounded as their lives drained into the snow. That boy was gone.

The boy that dressed so proudly in his uniform, buttons shining and boots clean, died frozen on the battlefield with a gun and a sword. That boy was a solider and that solider knew a prince so bright, and charming, and _warm_ but that prince with his title, and money, and warmth was far away from frontline carnage playing the sweet-talking diplomat. In Poland, finding happiness in every pretty girl he saw.

And that solider, he felt no warmth anymore.

The uniform he had once been so proud to wear weighed uncomfortably upon his shoulders. Stiff with sweat and blood, gunpower and death, the long horseback journey through Russian terrane. But he cared very little of his appearance when he pushed the door open.

He was unpresentable among the glitz and glamour of Moscow bars but he was a soldier just returned and he wore his dirty metals with pride. He could not feel the burn of their disapproval gaze as he scanned the crowded bar and he never did care much for the trivial thoughts of gossips and crybabies anyways.

He wanted to a drink, a bath, and to see Anatole in whatever order those three things came to him.

His eyes finally landed heavily on the platinum blond perfumed head hunkered along in a corner at the bar. Any trepidation he felt as Anatole not being the life of this outrageous party gave way to amusement when he realized why. The prince was sat in deep concentration, biting at the skin of thumb, while he scribbled his loopy scrawl across the paper in front of him. At least he had a row of forgotten shots of vodka in front of him.

Dolokhov down one of the shots before Anatole could look up to see who took the stool next to him, “How many months, Anatole?”

“I believe that four dreadful months have passed since I’ve last seen your face,” Anatole replied, voice full of warmth and exhaustion. His uniform was clean and his buttons all polished but Dolokhov could catalogue all the buttons that seemed newer, sewed on with unskilled hands, the dirt stains that were too stubborn to come out completely, and the fraying around the seams. “You look well, mon cher.”

“I look like garbage,” Dolokhov found himself responding. He could feel each individual layer of grime on his skin and knew his eyes were still darken with paint as he stared into Anatole’s clean and tired face. “But alas, how was Poland?”

“How was the frontline?”

Subtlety was an art that was lost on Anatole and his attempt at misdirection was heavy-handed and obvious but Dolokhov conceded and dropped the topic. He down two more of Anatole’s shots just to unthaw his face enough to manage a smirk, “Which lucky lady is it that will be receiving your letters this time?” 

“It is not a lady,” Anatole answered and Dolokhov’s mouth went dry. Sometimes like dread, something like hope, flickered in his chest before he crushed it under doubt and self-loathing. Those feelings were that of a boy, he was a soldier now. “I am writing to my father, mon cher.”

“What did you do?” Dolokhov’s smirk died on his face and he went cold, subzero down to his core. Anatole did not write to his father if not for money or help. “What is it? Is it debtors?”

Anatole snorted, “I did not do anything, Fedya, I have been fighting the same war as you.”

“In _Poland_ ,” He shot back accusingly, ignoring the burn of his name on Anatole’s tongue and just how long it had been since he’d heard it. “Poland is but a vacation to what I have seen and you, you manage trouble wherever you go. You got married last I left you there!”

“Don’t speak of that to me,” He waved off, pressing another drink into his hand. “You are freezing, Fedya, drink more and worry less. All is well, mon cher.”

“You cause much to worry about.”

“If you must know, I am accepting an invitation,” He told him in the voice of a prince, brandishing the letter from his pile like a child excited on Christmas. “See?”

“An invitation to what?”

“A lot has happened while we have been on our adventure,” He answered vaguely. It was always an adventure when you were a prince, and wealthy, and spent your silver-tongue talking yourself out of warzones. “It appears that my dear sister is to be wed.”

There was a beat where Anatole let that settle heavily between them before his face split into a worrying large grin, “To Pierre Bezukhov.”

“To…” His mask cracked like splinters on a thawing lake and he grabbed the letter from Anatole’s hand, scanning it. He could not help the giddy glee of heat that rushed to his face and the laugh that burst through his lips, made worse by Anatole’s own nearly hysterical giggles, “Hélène is going to marry the sad old crank?”

“There is to be a ball,” Anatole nodded, jabbing at the spot in the letter where it was mentioned. “I am expected to attend. It is a celebration of their…love.”

Dolokhov snorted but didn’t say anything else so Anatole continue in his warm velvet voice, bumping his shoulder playfully into his, “There is a war going on, Fedya.”

“I am very aware of that, Anatole.”

“And we have lived to love another day,” He grinned even more. “Accompany me home, it is a merry occasion for my sister and I wish to share it with you.”

Dolokhov did not actually need any more reason than there was a war going on to find the closest party and he needed even less when Anatole was the one asking. He’d already made up his mind when Anatole added, “I know no better dance partner than you, mon cher.”

“I will – I will go,” He accepted and Anatole grinned, pressing a feather-like kiss against his temple so quickly that Dolokhov thought that he mistook longing for reality. It was the shame the burnt the words to his tongue, “For Hélène, of course.”

“Of course,” Anatole hummed, falling back onto his stool. “I will tell my father to expect both of us.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is less wordy and more more dialogue-y. Enjoy.

The castle of Vasili Kuragin was a grand and cold affair.

Much like the man himself, the castle was towering, stoic, and cold. It was a gross display of wealth and self-importance, it was a front like his smile and his words, it was a lie. Dolokhov hated the castle in much the same way that he hated the man. He wanted to burn the castle down to its foundation in much the same way he longed to do to the man.

The appeal of the wealthy and regal fell to pieces when all it reminded you of was bruises on pale skin, of shivering in the cold and frozen eyes, the dance that people were willing to perform not to discuss all the tell-tale signs. When you stripped down the paint and the act, all that was left was cold and ugly.

Dolokhov’s date was a woman introduced to him merely two hours before by Anatole. A friend of a friend of a lover’s lover. She was, of course, exceptionally beautiful but dreadfully boring and as uninterested in Dolokhov as he was in her. He did not mind, it was a socialite thing. If he did not show with a date on his arm, some bored princess with too much time on her hands would spend the night trying to set him up with her sister.

He was greeted at the door by Hélène and Pierre.

She was dressed to the nines in green and black, a double string of pearls around her neck and a large smile painted on her face while Pierre stood awkwardly to her side. She held out a hand, spoke in a low flirty hum, “Dolokhov.”

“Countess,” He replied in the same tone, kissing her hand before thrusting his own into her face expectantly as he often did as a child.

She laughed, leaving a red print on his knuckles when she returned the gesture before shoving his hand away, “Pierre, this is Anatole’s friend, Fyodor Dolokhov. You have heard of him from Anatole’s letters?”

“Yes, of course,” Pierre nodded, ducking his head in a shy fashion before taking his hand in a surprisingly strong grip.

Hélène continued with a raised eyebrow, checking Dolokhov over all the same, “Who is your date?”

“This is – oh.” When he turned back around, it was with just enough time to watch her wander down the ballroom steps. “You know, her name must have slipped my mind.”

“They always do, don’t they?”

“Has Anatole arrived?” He asked. “I thought he would be staying at the Inn but he had not checked in.”

She hummed, “There is not enough people here yet to make a grand entrance so I imagine that he is pacing the length of his room. Feel free to comfort him in these trying time.

He raised an eyebrow, “These joyous times, you mean?”

“Of course,” She replied smoothly, winking at him. “I was referring to Anatole’s bad hair day. Was it your suggestion that he should wear it that way?”

“A decision he made all on his own, I believe.”

“Hmm, it would be,” She nodded, grabbing his shoulder before he could get farther into the building. Her voice was a rumble close to his ear, “I am happy to see you, Fedya.”

“And I you, princess.”

Dolokhov didn’t see much of any of the Kuragins after the ball got underway even after Anatole made his entrance. Hélène, he knew, would be entertaining the whole night and did not wish to have any part of marriage talk so he did not seek her out. He’d catch the occasional glimpse of platinum hair glide across the floor or hear a giggle that only Anatole could provoke but it was not until his search for a stiff drink interrupted a whispery argument in a corner of the kitchen that he finally found his friend, “Anatole!”

The enthusiasm in his voice was flat and his wide smile did little to hide the disgust in his eyes as he watched Vasili shift personas, his respectful smile and the clasp on his son’s shoulder would not sway Dolokhov.

“Mr. Dolokhov,” He greeted, nodding slightly. “I have heard wonders about your war service, it is rather remarkable given your…disposition.”

Dolokhov gritted his teeth and kept his smile plastered, “I am most gracious for the compliment, sir. Not to be terribly rude, I have not seen my friend for so long, would you mind if I stole him from you?”

“Not at all.”

Anatole smoothed down his rumbled collar when he was released from his father’s hold. He wasted no time flinging his arm around Dolokhov’s shoulder and leading him to the drinks before shoving one into his hand. He grabbed one for himself and downed it, “Mon cher, I owe you a debt.”

He knew better than to ask what had transpired so he didn’t, “Have you seen Hélène?”

“I imagine she is upholding the family image,” He replied, refilling his glass. _So, that was what that argument was about then._ “If that man knew what she got up to in her free time and with who, I would not be-“ Anatole waved his hand around, slipping slower from his glass this time “-Are you enjoying Matriona?”

“She is…around,” He shrugged, taking the third drink from Anatole’s hand. “Pace yourself.”

“Aye, there is a war going on,” He grinned, taking the drink back and downing it. “Live and be merry, mon cher, there is love in the air.”

Anatole slipped from his sight somewhere on the dance floor and Dolokhov slipped from the party, taking to wandering the well-remembered paths of cold hallways. It was not until he found himself outside of Anatole’s study that he saw a familiar face, “Matriona?”

She offered him only the sorriest look of embarrassed sympathy before rushing off down the hall with her messy hair and wrinkled dress. It did not take long for Dolokhov to put two and two together before he rolled his eyes and pushed the study’s door open.

He was greeted with a very debauched, very drunk Anatole with his collar undone and his shirt open, slumped into the couch with the kind of ease that could only come from sex and drink, “You are fast, darling, what drinks – aye, mon cher.”

“This is where you slipped off to?” He asked incredulous, his eyes trained on Anatole’s glassy blue ones because everywhere else was inappropriate.

“You could have joined us,” Anatole told him, grabbing his hand and pulling until Dolokhov was sitting beside him. He sat up, no care for his open shirt or unbuttoned trousers, only the cool comfort of Dolokhov’s hand held against his flushed face. “The more the merrier, mon cher.”

“Yes, thank you for the offer,” He said flatly, pulling his hand away. Anatole whined in protest, his eyes already half closed while Dolokhov ignored the heat gathering in his face as he started to fix Anatole’s buttons. “She was my date.”

“She is lovely,” He slurred, tracing the outline of her body in the air with a lazy hand. His head fell forward to rest against Dolokhov’s shoulder with a sigh, “I think I love her.”

“No, you don’t,” He rolled his eyes and scolded him half-heartedly, “People will talk, Anatole. You are a married man.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Anatole protested, head falling farther into the crook of Dolokhov’s neck. He cursed silently when his fingers stumbled over the last of the buttons because Anatole pressed a kiss against his pulse. “ “Like – like the ducks, Fe’, God has made me as I am.”

“A reckless fool.” He shoved Anatole back on the couch harder than necessary, the heat of his lips was a comforting burn on his neck. He fixed Anatole’s cufflinks and the buttons on his trousers before he looked back up at him.

Anatole was watching him curiously, “I am a lover, Dolokhov.”

“Every unwed girl in town knows that, Anatole.”

“And some of the married ones,” he grinned like they had shared some marvelous joke before sighing in a voice so sleepy and slurred, warm with drink, “You are exhausted, mon cher, when has the world been nice to you?”

Dolokhov blinked, taken back by the abrupt change in conversation, “The world is not a nice place, Anatole, there is a war.”

“Yes, but we live, we laugh, and we love,” He sighed, blinking heavily. “You are my friend, Fedya.”

“You are mine,” He told him, finishing with his cuff. Anatole’s hand was a dead weight in his own, his face finally relaxing into the clutches of sleep.

Hélène was a ghost in the doorway at some point during all of this but Dolokhov chose to ignore her until she said what it was she wanted, “When do you return to service?”

“A fortnight, Countess.”

“And Anatole?”

“I imagine that he’ll stay until after the wedding.”

“Dolokhov.” Her voice was heavy with implication, she did not want to waste the effort of dancing around whatever topic it was she’d come to discuss.

He let the pretenses drop to the floor, meeting her cold eyes with question, “Hélène?”

“Let’s elope.”

“He laughed, feeling for the first time that night that he was truly drunk, “I do not love you.”

“It is not about love, don’t be silly,” She rolled her eyes before marching into the room, sitting on the edge of the table in front of him. Her eyes softened when they drifted to Anatole’s sleeping face, it was Anatole that cared so desperately about love and being loved. Not her and not him, there was no love for people like them. “It is never about love, Fedya.”

“If it is not about love than what is wrong with Pierre?” He asked. “He will treat you right and it will please your father.”

“Exactly, Fedya, it will please my father. Pierre is so…”

“Rich?” He asked. “Bewildered?”

“Awkward,” She answered, disgust in her voice. “We talk of most ordinary things, it is terrible.”

“And what am I?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk playing among her lips as she tipped her glass to him. “Well, I’ve always loved a man in uniform.”

He snorted, “You have never loved a man.”

“But you have, dear Fedya,” She said, there was no malice in it but his spine stiffened despite himself. His eyes cut a vicious line across the room despite knowing that the only gossip nearby was passed out drunk. There was mockery in her voice when she spoke next, “Dolokhov, the bachelor.”

“The assassin.”

“The war will end eventually,” She hummed. “You will be expected to marry someday. It would be…easier if there were no pesky secrets and think of the poor girl, you’d never love her.”

She sighed, leaning much too close as her hands swept over the shoulders of his uniform, “And of course, Anatole would-“

“Have my head if I eloped with his sister,” He finished, shooting her a harsh look. “Your father would shoot me dead.”

She put her finger thought the hole in his shoulder where a bullet grazed the fabric. “You are a pretty good shot, Fedya, and you have always wanted a go with the bastard for as long as I’ve know you.”

“Why me?” He asked. “Why ask me?”

“You are an officer of war,” She replied easily. “Everybody is crazy about you, Dolokhov, the assassin. You are respectable and fierce but-“

“Not too important?” He supplied. “Just enough to not have you exiled from your family? I have nothing to offer you, I do not come from money or title.”

“You also have no interest in me,” She stated. “And I of you, with the exception of that brief-“

“Don’t, attraction had nothing to do with that.”

She nodded, dropping the topic with nothing more than a wink, “It would be as if we were part of the theater.”

“An act put on for the public?”

“Exactly,” She told him. “And Anatole will be none the wiser as to what those touches and little kisses mean to you.”

She sat her glass down empty on the table and stood, smoothing her gown as she did. Dolokhov didn’t react when she pressed a cold kiss to his forehead with a murmur to think it through before he made a decision.

She smirked when she pulled away and held out her hand expectantly, “There is a party going on, Dolokhov, people will wonder where we have disappeared to.”

He took her hand, and he accepted her offer to dance, and he mauled over what was said in Anatole’s study. It was a rash and stupid, dangerously short-sighted and _stupid_ thing to do, to even consider it was ridiculous. She wanted him to be well aware of that.

So, he mauled. He mauled, and he drank, and he mauled over it well after the party ended and he dropped down into Anatole’s empty bed. He mauled, and mauled, and mauled over it until it no longer resembled an offer. It had never been an offer to begin with. It was an ultimatum.

Hélène was not a generous person. She was so much like her father that it was almost painful when it showed so brilliantly, self-serving and manipulative, pulling strings with no consequence. She gave him an option of one. Do as she asked or pay a price too high to consider.

He thought of nights, too few and too many, when pretty girls were snowstorms away and the vodka was warm, Anatole’s lips warmer. He thought of an intimacy that burnt the night and forgotten in the morning. He thought of too much, thought of nothing. He thought, stupidly, of winter gloves and princes’ blankets, and how cold and empty his life was. He thought, and he made his decision.

Hélène confronted him in the kitchen pantry when morning came, “Smart man, Dolokhov.”

“Evil woman.”

She grinned a laugh that was base and cringing, and pressed a kiss to his lips until a throat cleared from the entrance and Dolokhov felt himself go cold and pale, has Pierre always been that big?

Hélène smirked to her Soon-To-Be husband, her Never-Will-Be husband, her Too-Kind-And-Good-And-Gentle-For-This-Family husband. Her voice was light as she reached around Dolokhov to grab a jar of jam, pressing against him, “Did you have fun at the party, Pierre?”

The conversation continued to the table as awkward as it had in the pantry and Dolokhov seared with a shame worse than death, unable to contribute without stuttering. Pierre really was as awkward as Hélène said, seemingly so unsure and unfit in his body. He was too gentle for what she had planned and he didn’t deserve what was coming.

It was only the arrival of Anatole in yesterday’s uniform and his probing questions regarding Pierre’s studies got him out of his shell. Anatole had a way of easing people into conversation and a way of easing people out of their wallets as breakfast ended with Pierre happily handing over fifty rubles.

It was not until the night when the images in his mind won out against sleep that the guest bedroom door cracked open. He did not bother to even look, sighing tiredly, “Anatole, it’s late.”

“Interest, is Anatole often in your bed?”

Dolokhov sat up, glaring through the dark, “Hélène, what do you want?”

“More interesting, why did you assume I was my brother?”

“Why would I assume that it would be you, betrothed to another, sneaking into my room?” He asked but was only offered silence. He gave in rather than fight her, “Anatole, I imagine, has been experiencing night terrors. It might be Poland but it is still a war.”

All the glee fell from her voice, “Why would you assume that?”

“He is tired,” Dolokhov shrugged. “Because I am too.”

“You should keep him company.”

“Then how else would you sneak into my room to, I assume, discuss your stupid elopement idea.”

“Our idea.”

“Do not put my name on that.”

“It’s already there, Hélène Dolokhova. Charming, isn’t it?”

“You really are an awful woman.”

She grinned, he could see the white of her teeth catch in the moonlight, “I think we should do this in a day-“

“No,” He cut off her sigh and her explanation on how little choices he had in this matter. “No, I wish to spend the day with my mother, I have been to hell and came back wearing it. She does not travel well anymore and this thing you have planned will bring shame to her. Allow me this, Hélène.”

She thought about it even as they both knew she would concede already and then shrugged, “Two days, then. Do you think you could get Anatole to find that troika driver he likes so much?”

“Balaga?” He asked. “How do you expect me to do that without telling him?”

“You are smart, Dolokhov,” She sighed. “I am sure you can think of something.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dolokhov gave up on sleep when the sun peaked over the horizon and he still could not get Hélène out of his mind – her words, her lips, the way she swept from the room with so much of his dignity. He crawled from the sheets and padded down the hall. Anatole answered after the first knock, already dressed for the day, “Dolokhov, you are not an early riser.”

“I am leaving soon,” He said as way of greeting, watching as something like apprehension sat on Anatole’s tired face. “I am to visit my mother for the day, I wanted to thank you for giving me lodging to extend the same invitation.”

“You are inviting me to spend the day with you and your mother?”

Dolokhov shrugged, “It is no princely estate but she has always adored you.”

He wanted to keep Anatole close, wanted to keep him away from his cruel father, and he wanted to feel the warmth that radiated from Anatole’s smile and his voice. He added, “And of course, the market has not been the same without your violin.”

“Or your guitar, mon cher,” Anatole pointed out with a cheeky grin, clasping Dolokhov’s arm in an embrace before announcing, “I will send word to the kitchen to make her favorite soup. We will set out after breakfast.”

There was a comfort in the fact that Anatole never really changed. The stupid child that found trouble, that _was_ trouble, in much the say way that magnets found each other. The same troublesome youth that he spent his entire childhood chasing after was still this man in his ridiculous green coat.

Anatole was taller, thinner than he thought a man could be, but he still stepped on ever third cobblestone like it was a sort of game, a dance, waving his arms like he was conducting his own orchestra. He still smiled at Dolokhov and tilted his head like nothing else mattered in the whole damn town except the words that passed between them.

Anatole’s brow furrowed into a confused hurt and he repeated his name but it was his hand burning his shoulder that snapped Dolokhov from his thoughts, “What?”

“I asked if it would not be too much of a bother if we stopped by the graveyard on the way back to the manor tomorrow,” He repeated, eyes doing that thing where they looked at Dolokhov’s ear instead of his eyes. A blush flushed his cheeks in a ridiculously boyish way. “I have been away, my mother’s birthday passed me by. I wish to present her with flowers.”

Dolokhov had visited his father’s headstone half a dozen times since his death, all at the insistence of Anatole. The stone just made him feel small, and cold, and confused as to what comforts could come from the act of laying dying flowers on the already dead. He nodded anyways, “Of course, Anatole, we will stop to get flowers on the way.”

He nodded once and then his smile shifted from uneasy to a joyous one, “Does your sister still reside in Petersburg?”

“Stay away from my sister, Anatole.”

He laughed, throwing his head back and slinging his arm over Dolokhov’s shoulder. They continued their way down familiar streets.

Anatole spent most of the morning moping around the small manor behind Dolokhov while he fixed up the things that broke in his absence. He would sigh and make inane comments about stupid things as he leaned against doorframes or stood over Dolokhov’s shoulder watching, and then he’d disappear from the room at moments at a time.

Dolokhov would wonder out of rooms with his tools and his messy hair and find Anatole with his head laying in his mother’s lap, allowing his hair to be petted. He would find him pouting until even Fedya’s mother grew tired of it and put him to work peeling potatoes in the kitchen. Dolokhov would catch the occasional smile while he evened the legs of the table in the kitchen as Anatole bounced happily around the room after his mother.

Dolokhov’s own smile would fall into a somber expression because even after all this, Anatole still just wanted a mother.

“Fedya?” He asked that night, long after they should both have fallen into sleep. Dolokhov’s eyes drifted to the stocking covered feet sticking over the edge of his bed far enough that he could see them from where he laid on the floor. “You appear to have been distracted all day, is something wrong?”

“I have a lot on my mind, Anatole.”

“Is it the war?” Blue eyes and a mess of white blond hair peered over the edge of the bed, curiosity and dread held within them. “I… the war has been weighting on my mind, and my heart, a lot as of late. I find myself there when the sun goes down.”

Night terrors. Dolokhov sometimes hated being right. He sighed heavily, he dreaded the answer, “What was it that happened in Poland, Anatole?”

“Makarin,” Anatole spoke of his friend in a haunted low whisper, gazing into Dolokhov’s eyes but not seeing them. His mouth pulled into a frown, “He saw too much, was shell-shocked, I believe. I found him.”

“Anatole-“

“It was too late.” He blinked hard, looking at Dolokhov expectantly before speaking again in his matter-of-fact way, “I am cold and you are a decorated officer, Dolokhov, you should not be sleeping on floors. The bed is small but it is still enough to hold us both.”

It was only after Anatole won their staring contest with those same expectant eyes that he looked at everything he wanted with and Dolokhov crawled into the sheets beside him that Anatole spoke again, “You do not have to tell me what is weight on you.”

Anatole’s voice suggested that he wanted the opposite of that. Dolokhov simply said, “Okay.”

“I mean it.” He did not.

“Okay.”

“You will tell me when you are ready,” Anatole said finally, eyes that eager blue that practically glowed in the moonlight. “I know that you will.”

“It’s Balaga.”

“The famous troika driver?” He asked, sitting up. “Is he ailing?”

“I…I have not seen him,” Dolokhov answered, honest and vague. He’d let Anatole form his own conclusions, it wasn’t lying that way. Honorable men didn’t lie, Dolokhov was honorable. “Is he in town?”

Whatever conclusion that Anatole came to ran the sadness from his eyes and put a smile on his face, “I will invite him to the club, you can buy him a drink.”

Dolokhov returned the smile, it felt bitter and brittle, “I would like that.”

“Balaga, he holds his liquor better than you, I swear it,” Anatole grinned. “We can have a contest.”

Dolokhov laughed and threw his pillow into Anatole’s face, “I will accept any challenge tomorrow. Tonight, you are tired, yes? Let’s sleep.”

Anatole was a lightweight when it came to alcohol and women, both overwhelmed his senses much too easily. Balaga was a different breed. He was more like Dolokhov than Anatole, they drank the same hard liquor and held it well.

Anatole was drunk mess between them and Dolokhov could not feel the frost as Anatole charmed every girl he smiled at. He felt only the warmth even as his eyes threatened to cry rum.

He mentioned the elopement only after Anatole’s drunkenness slumped him into a slumber so deep that even the reckless troika ride could not wake him. He slurred over the whipping wind tales of evil women and black lace, and offered money that was not his for a ride to Poland. Balaga had laughed over the noise, drunken and speeding through town to a manor so cold, waved off the money and taking a swig of an open bottle. He called back, “I will do it for the Countess and for Kuragin.”

“You cannot tell him.”

“Aye, you secret is mine.”

Hélène was a pressing shadow against his back from the moment he dragged Anatole staggering through the door, up the stairs, and down the hall to his room in the manor. Hovering like a ghost over his shoulders as he fought clinging hands and flirty long lashes batting at him at every attempt to rid Anatole of his ridiculous coat and vest. Haunting every gentle but drunk-clumsy attempt to undo the buttons, and Anatole’s lips capturing his with a sigh or a giggle, broken when pale slender hands slipped over his hips, “Anatole, no.”

“Stay,” He hummed like it was a song into the breast pocket of Dolokhov’s shirt. “Please, stay. Fedya-“

“I am not leaving,” He said, sober enough to not add _right now._ He felt all the words on the tip of his tongue and he wanted to tell his friend more than anything what Hélène was making him do, why she was doing it. He wanted to tell Anatole so much that his heart was bursting with it but he kept his mouth shut.

“Good,” Anatole sighed. “You are my friend, Fedya. I love you.”

“I know, Anatole, you love everybody like this.”

“That’s true,” He admitted and then giggled like a small girl as Dolokhov bent to remove to pull off his boots. “I told you that Balaga could drink.”

“You were right,” Dolokhov muttered, standing from his squat to shove Anatole back into the bed, he made sure the blankets were covering him up to his chin. “Now, sleep. Your hangover will be waiting for you in the morning.”

Dolokhov only acknowledged his shadow after Anatole grumbling trailed off into sleep, he lifted his eyes from his sleeping friend to Hélène in the doorway. She was dressed in black fur and gloves, looking at him expectantly.

He grunted, “Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Balaga said he’d take us tomorrow,” He stated coldly. “Not tonight.”

“I said-“

“I changed the plan,” He snapped and then stood, staggering a little as he made it to his full height. He lost his bravo when Anatole hummed in his sleep and turned over, whispering in a hiss, “Unless you wish to walk to Poland, Balaga is drunk.”

She huffed and then turned onto her feet before thinking better of it and turning back around. Her voice was snide, “If you plan to wake my brother to get handsy, dear Fedya, close the door first. Anatole is dreadfully vocal in a state like this.”

And then she disappeared down the hall with the rest of his dignity.

He sighed, falling back onto the bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose against his headache and the way the world spun drunkenly before his eyes. He felt, all at once, exhausted and decided at once, as he toed his boots off, that he was not moving from this spot.

Dolokhov found Hélène at the breakfast table, dressed and reading a letter over her toasted bread and jam. He found Pierre already dressed and speaking in low serious tones with Vasili at the far end of the table but Anatole’s whereabouts remained as much a mystery as it was when he woke up alone.

He was greeted and grunted a greeting in return before dropping into a chair.

Hélène pushed a glass of water to him and asked cheerfully, “Sleep well, Dolokhov?”

“Did you, Countess?” He asked back, raising a challenging eyebrow to her. “I can hear Pierre’s snoring from my room?”

“Hmm, you were not in _your_ room, were you?”

He shot her a glare, “Were you?”

“Pierre and I do not sleep in the same room,” She replied easily. “We are not married yet, it would not be decent.”

“When have you ever-“ Dolokhov stopped himself with a sip of his water when he remembered the presence of her father in the room and found his hard eyes looking to them with interest. He took another sip to wash the feel of sleep from his lips, “I slept in Anatole’s room. He drank his weight and you know how clumsy he can be.”

He met Vasili’s eyes, “All those bruises growing up, I did not want him to wake in the night and fall.”

“That is noble,” Hélène said, her voice losing its amused tone as she changed the conversation to a different direction, “Where is my brother? I have not seen him all morning.”

“Neither have I, Countess.”

Anatole had never been one for suspense and did not keep them waiting for much longer. There was a clatter down the hall, voices rising and falling in happy chatter and Anatole entered as grand as he would a ballroom of beautiful women. Any trace of hangover was hidden from his face as he smiled to his sister, presenting her with a yellow carnation and bowing before her.

He turned to Dolokhov next and shoved an entire bouquet into his face with the same ridiculous bow, “For you, mon cher.”

Hélène laughed and Dolokhov flushed an ugly red color, “What is the meaning of this?”

“For your father,” Anatole answered, sitting the flowers on the table with care. Dolokhov noticed the second bouquet of white orchids as the prince dropped into a chair.

Fedya blinked, “What?”

“We are going to the graveyard, we can visit your father,” He replied, noticing the stiffness in Dolokhov’s jaw and the stop of the clatter around him but not understanding its meaning, “It is not that far from my mother, Fedya, you do not have to worry.”

It was half a mile, Dolokhov thought to say. _No_ , he thought to say. _I don’t want to go, don’t make me go, please_ , he thought to say. Instead he nodded, “That is – that is true. Yeah, we can – we can do that.”

“Charming,” Anatole grinned. “Hélène, would you like to accompany us?”

“Not today, Toto,” She replied, returning his grin but it felt rehearsed, fake. “I am attending to some last minute arrangements.”

“Oh,” He frowned. “We could-“

“No, Anatole, let your sister be,” Their father answered and Anatole smiled slipped before he shrugged it off. “You run off and stay out of trouble.”

“Of course, Father, I always do.”

Anatole does not, “We are going to get in trouble.”

Dolokhov got a grunt in response and nearly kicked in the head with the bottom of Anatole’s boot. He watched the prince land unevenly on his feet on the other side of the fence and nearly fall before righting himself. He grinned at him and asked, “Since when do you care about trouble?”

“I don’t.”

“Is it the fence then?” He asked in an almost mocking tone. “Can you not get over it? You are short.”

Dolokhov bristled at that and Anatole laughed before shoving his hand through the bars and grabbing his coat, he pulled him forward until the only thing between them was the iron bar of the cemetery’s gate, “Pass me the flower, Fedya. I will hold them as you climb.”

His lips were almost pressed to his forehead and Dolokhov swallowed hard before shoving Anatole back, he nearly tripped over a stone but laughed, “Aye, there he is. Dolokhov, the assassin! Dolokhov, the fence jumper, eh?”

“The gate is locked for a reason.”

“For looters,” He shrugged. “We are not looters and the morning is still young. The keeper has not been by to unlock it, we are doing no harm.”

“Except the commitment to trespassing.”

“Aye,” Anatole shrugged, reaching back through the bars to take the flowers carefully. “Are you coming or not?”

Dolokhov had never refused Anatole before and a little trespassing wasn’t going to be where he drew the line, so he climbed. He landed with less grace that Anatole but still managed to more or less keep his footing, “We are not children anymore, Kuragin. The punishments are real now.”

“If we are challenged to a duel, I will accept,” He told him, holding his hand up as if he was swearing it. He nudged Dolokhov and rolled his eyes, “We are officers, we would be given forgiveness for our transgressions.”

“You do not know that.”

“And if not, we would give them the money in our pockets,” He shrugged, tugging on Dolokhov’s sleeve as he started to walk.

Dolokhov snorted, “You have no money, you never do.”

“We’d give them all the money from _your_ pockets then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going the long way to get to the conclusion of this fic. More to come.


	4. Chapter 4

“Uh, hi.”

“Hello, Fedya,” Anatole critiqued with a tut. “Be respectful.”

“Hello,” Dolokhov revised before breathing out a huff of fogged air. He rolled his eyes to the heavens before sighing, “Hello, it’s – it’s Fedya.”

“Fyodor.”

Dolokhov’s eyes shot over the small gravestone to where Anatole was leaning against the raised headstone of the late Anton Popov and glared, “I do not criticize the way you speak to stone.”

“To your father,” He corrected in a way that grated Dolokhov’s already frazzled nerves. “And I do not do it wrong, speak to your father with respect.”

It was stone, not a man. It was cold, and impersonal, and it was _not_ his father because his father was dead and had been for over a decade. “This is how I had always spoke to him.”

“Like is the first girl that you have loved and you are fumbling for the right words to ask her on a date?”

Dolokhov flushed for all the wrong reasons and shame ate at his gut in an awful way at just the thought of what his father would think of his son. His cold son with no love in his heart for anybody but family and Anatole Kuragin, an airhead prince.

He tried to search his brain for a girl that he had liked, had actually liked and felt the kind of butterflies that Anatole spoke of, but he could only relate the feeling to one person, one man. He sunk his knees into the snow with the guilt of it all.

“Tell him of your service,” Anatole prompted. “They are the tales of a warrior, he will be proud.”

“Anatole, give me – go take a walk.”

He looked surprised by the suggestion, “Why?”

“This is – it is a private matter, what I say to my dead father,” He stated. “It is not for your ears or your loose mouth, you will tell everybody that I have a heart.”

Anatole snorted at that and his perplex face broke into a grin, “I have been telling people that for years and no one has believed me yet.”

Dolokhov leveled him with an unimpressed look and Anatole shrugged before heaving himself to his feet with a grin. He offered a farewell to the stone with a respectful bow and bounced off between the headstones.

“He is ridiculous,” Fedya muttered with a huff of amusement. His half-smile dropped as his eyes dropped to the name carved into the stone. “You would have thought so.

“I-“ He breathed out, feeling ridiculous and stupid but knew if he didn’t attempt, at least for Anatole, that he would feel disappointed in himself. “You would – would _not_ have liked him, he is careless and his heart is too free but you – his father is…I haven’t done enough in that case.”

The wet cold of the snow seeped into his trousers and chilled the skin beneath them, “You would not be proud of me. I am not proud.”

“They worry, the generals and my superior officers, they worry that I enjoy the war too much,” He admitted, words he had said to nobody. “They are not right but they – they’re not wrong. I enjoy…”

He breathed out and shook his head, “I enjoy feeling powerful, I enjoy the battles and having a gun on my side. I do not enjoy losing my friend, the fear of losing – of losing…” _Anatole_. “…everything.”

The stone remained stone, cold and impersonal, and Dolokhov did not know how this worked, it felt as if he was speaking to a wall like an idiot or to Anatole when he already made of him mind about being the cause of his own ruin.

He felt as if the stone should respond, as if the angels and the beings up above him knew all the words that he was not saying, knew the guilt curling in his gut, and the cold that threatened to freeze him. That they knew his desires, even the ones he did not voice and he-

He hated this, hated it so much, and he hated Anatole for bringing him to this stone. He hated Anatole so much, he loved him, he loved him, he-

“I love him,” He stated to the stone, vocalizing the words after years and years of trying to destroy them. “I know that I shouldn’t, I have _tried_ not to, I have… I know that it isn’t right to feel this way but he _needs_ me and I – I will freeze to death without him.”

“If it is against God’s will than I do not care,” Dolokhov stated, nearly flinching at the thought of how his mother would clutch her chest to those awful words. “God took my father when I needed one. God thrust me into war, and fire, and the smell of death. God put Anatole into my life and gave him a father that – that is cruel and mean, and-“

“You would be disappointed in me,” Dolokhov said finally, feeling heat rush to his eyes and burn them. He scrubbed at them irritated. “You – you disappointed _me_.”

“You _left_ ,” He hissed, angry at the stone, and his father, and all the times that he watched his mother struggle and break her back to keep them in clothes and fed, all the broken windows and cold winters spent along and freezing. “You just – I wouldn’t be this way if I had a father.”

He would not have been in that market running errands for his mother, he would never have met Anatole, hid him, and there would no broken home to take him to. There would be no bow to his mother, no gloves offered in exchange, no bruises on pale skin that ate at him with guilt even now.

There would no blond-haired ridiculous princes to fall in love with if his father had not died. There would be no cold, no broken windows, no Anatole, no oath to burn down the world.

The bruises would remain, the occurrence struck him cold. That abuse, and that cold look in Vasili Kuragin’s eyes had been there before Dolokhov met Anatole. It would remain there if he hadn’t. Those big, big hands in the back of an eight year old’s collar, pressing bruises into his jaw, hitting him for imperfect mistakes of a child.

Anatole would still be there, would still be trouble wrapped in charm and a disarming smile, and he would be alone and frightened, and hurt.

And Dolokhov’s life, he could not look back on all the days he spent with Anatole and view them without his warmth or presence. He did not want to.

“I am going to do something awful and dishonorable,” He said with finality, his eyes lifted from the lettering to over it. He found Anatole in the distance, his usual jaunty step as he practically skipped through the yard. “I am going to abandon my mother for a woman betrothed to another, for a woman I hate.”

He was going to run, he decided with finality and stopped searching the ways to get out of it. He was going to run away with Hélène and her blackmail. He was going to go to Poland, to wed her, and it will bring shame to his mother’s door. He was going to follow though because the alternative was losing Anatole to the truth, to Hélène’s version of it and he could not lose, not this.

“I don’t – I don’t know if you are up there,” He said. “But I want to believe that you are and that you have the power to watch out for my mother. You loved her, I remember the way you looked at her and I will not be here to keep an eye on her because I am – I am taking a trip. Just…please, keep her safe, for me.

“I am your son,” He said. “As disappointing of one as I am, I am your son and I am asking this of you.”

“Please, give me a sign,” He begged. “Please?”

“Fedya?”

Dolokhov startled, swiping at his eyes before turning swiftly to the sound of the voice. He did not know if he was disappointed or relieved to find it to be Anatole peering down at him.

He climbed to his feet and asked in a gruff voice, “What, are you ready to go?”

“You have to lay the flowers down, mon cher.”

Dolokhov look at his hand and the bouquet crushed in his fist. He released his hold with a quiet ‘oh’ and laid the flowers at the base of the stone. He stood and adjusted his coat awkwardly, “Let’s go.”

It was a testament to how much distance he wanted to put between himself and the cold stone and his father’s judgment because Anatole had to practically trot to keep up beside him. He asked breathlessly, “What did you talk about, eh?”

He asked, and asked, and rephrased, and finally pulled on Dolokhov’s arm so they stopped. They were both out breath, he asked again.

“It is personal.”

“There is no barrier between us, Fedya, you are my friend,” He breathed out. “You can tell me.”

There was so much that he kept from Anatole that even simply saying that there was nothing felt like a dig at his honor. He worked his jaw out of its clench and finally said, “I told him about you.”

Anatole brightened, “Oh! Good things?”

“Are there any bad things about you?”

Anatole hummed and then grinned, he swung his arms around Dolokhov and pulled him into a nice embrace. He rested his chin on top of Fedya’s head and said, “I like to think that there aren’t many, Fedya.”

He smelt of flower petals and the citrusy scent of breakfast fruits, and it was nice, comfortable, and Dolokhov did not want to leave the warmth of it so he allowed himself to sink into it. He let his eyes fall close and his forehead press against Anatole’s chest, and then he startled when Anatole clasped his hands against his shoulders like a _pal_ , “Would your father like me, mon cher?”

 _No._ “Yes.”

Anatole grin grew to an impressive size and it brought a smile to Dolokhov’s lips even as he broke the hold and they continued the half-mile trek to Anatole’s mother, “Who has ever disliked you, Anatole?”

He brow furrowed and then he shrugged, “Jealous husbands of married lovers?”

Dolokhov startled a laugh, “Well, there is that.”

“My mother would have liked you,” Anatole added as an afterthought. “She would have liked you a lot, and your guitar. She was an accomplished cellist, we could have all played together.”

“That means a lot, Anatole, thank you.”

“I wish you could have met her,” He said quietly, his smile dropping as he looked to the flowers in his hands. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “I wish she was still here.”

Dolokhov matched his quiet tone, “I know.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“I know,” He echoed. “ _I know.”_

“She would laugh,” Anatole said, voice shifting back to something joyous and light. He never did dwell for too long, it was a blessing. “About Hélène’s engagement, she would have found it amusing. She would be happy.”

Dolokhov smiled at the thought, of his conjured image of Aline Kuragina in his head with her soft gentle hands, and blonde hair, and the way she cherished her gentle son. In his mind, she clapped her hands together in laugher and she would take Anatole’s face into her hands and kiss his cheek. She would smile with his same sharp teeth and sadness would never have to be chased from her eyes.

“Hélène and Pierre Bezukhov, I can hardly believe it,” Anatole huffed, a radiating smile on his face. “She will make him a very frustrated husband, I just know it.”

Anatole giggled in a high-pitched childish way and pulled on Dolokhov’s arm impatiently, “Hurry, Dolokhov, I cannot bear the thought of keeping this news from her any longer.”  


	5. Chapter 5

They parted ways on the manor stairs.

Anatole not quite meeting his eyes, standing a step above him as if he did not already tower ridiculously over Dolokhov, stating something about sheet music and a piece his father wished for him to play for guest. Dolokhov grumbled something about something and shoved his hands into his pockets, “Well, uh, thanks for, uh, giving me some privacy out there.”

Anatole shrugged, subdue the way the cemetery made him and rubbed at his puffy eyes with his sleeve before sliding a patented Kuragin grin onto his face, “For you, mon cher, anything.”

Dolokhov hid the stupid way his heart skipped a beat behind a snort, “That is the least truthful thing you have said in a while. I am surprised you were not around the corner listening in, you gossip.”

“And make a bad impression on your father?” He asked in something like a joke, mocking offense with a hand on his chest. It was all it took to chase the exhausted sadness from his face. “Fedya, you wound my honor.”

“Prince Anatole cares of his honor now, I shall write to the papers.”

“Shoo, shoo, Dolokhov the assassin,” Anatole laughed, shoving him off the bottom step. “I am much too busy to stand witness to you attempt to make jokes. Now, off with you.”

“I expect to hear this music that is so important,” Dolokhov told him before his heart fell into a sinking cold pit in his gut and his smile turned bitter and brittle. He realized in that moment, in his commitment to Hélène’s ridiculous plan, that he would likely not hear that piece nor the next. “I will – well, I will see you later, Anatole, tonight.”

“You are always welcome, mon cher,” Anatole told him, clapping his on a shoulder in an odd gesture before bouncing up the stairs in his ridiculous jaunty walk.

Dolokhov watched the way he moved, like a dance to only music he could hear, and watched the way he paused at the entrance. He watched Anatole tilt his head to the side, watched a smile break his face into two, and pull Hélène from the shadows to embrace her.

Dolokhov couldn’t hear the words, spoke so low that even Anatole had to lean in to hear them, but watched the way Anatole’s body tensed and then went loose. He watched him nod, press a kiss to her lips in an embrace far too _much_ for siblings before continuing into the castle.

Hélène caught Dolokhov’s eye like she always knew that he was there and he turned on his heels immediately to start his trek across the city back to his house. He needed to pack a bag, needed to tell him mother as much as he could so not to cause her too much unnecessary fright. He needed – well, he wanted to feel the tender embrace of her hug one last time, if he was being honest.

He didn’t get much farther before Hélène slipped in beside him almost silently, saying nothing until he did, “I have knelt to your blackmail, Hélène, I have agreed to this ridiculous elopement. Must you ruin my walk as well?”

“Of course, _mon cher_ ,” She hummed, sliding her arm through his and resting her head onto his shoulder. He jousted her from him and pulled his arm away. She tsked, “You are so testy. Did the cemetery not go well, Anatole seemed joyous?”

“Do not speak to me, _Princess_.”

“Well, I am speaking to you,” She stated, matching his pace and his sharp turns through the streets. She still managed to look casual, still managed to smile and greet every person they passed. “I have questions, Dolokhov, words I wish to have with you about the events that will take place tonight.”

She put her hand on his arm and he stopped, losing this fight because he knew that she would outlast him, “I have already agreed, Hélène.”

“Yes, I know,” She said lowly, guiding them out of the street and into the opening of an alley. “Your commitment is not my concern, you have no choice.”

“What _is_ your concern then?”

“I need to know that you have your shit together,” She stated bluntly. “You spent your morning entertaining my brother and I am grateful but what of Balaga? Anatole, does he know? Have you acquired cash of your own?”

“I have what I won gambling since I have arrived,” He stated. “And I am leaving it all with my family.”

She rolled her eyes, “ _Fine_ , I am acquiring a loan as we speak. Pierre has already loaned me-“

“You are borrowing money from the man you wish to deceive?” He asked incredulous. “You are shameless.”

Her frown turned to a sly smirk and she shrugged, “Pierre’s purse is open to everybody, his heart is too good for the likes of people like us. It is his own sorry fault.”

“To answer your question,” He shook his head of all that was wrongs in her statement. “I will gather Balaga tonight before we go through with your ridiculous plan. He has gathered his best horses.”

“ _I_ have gathered his best horses,” She restated. “And the passports, and ten thousand rubles from Pierre. I should get another ten thousand from my father. I want this to go smoothly, have you mapped our route or are we going to ride around in circles like fools?”

“We will go to the village of Kamenka, there is an unfrocked priest there,” He told her. “We wed and then back into the troika and off we go, take the Poland highroad. That is the plan, go away.”

“That is no way to speak to your wife.”

He sent her a glare that would have shaken the war-hardened solider in his command but did nothing to Hélène. She rolled her eyes, gave him a peck on his cheek before shooing him off, “Go, on with your preparations. I will see you tonight.”

Dolokhov did not return to the Kuragin manor until late afternoon, sliding through the door unnoticed and continued up the stairs. He had no real reason to be there just yet other than an inkling of _something_ in his gut and he was convinced that he would surely go mad pacing the length of his bedroom at home.

Anatole was laying on his bed when Dolokhov found him, back to the door and pillow crushed under his head. He didn’t acknowledge his knock, “Anatole?”

He got no response but a minor shift as Anatole’s shoulders went unwillingly tense told him enough, Anatole was awake. He stepped silently into the room and moved around the bed, until he caught sight of blue eyes.

Anatole looked at him unamused, face half hidden in the pillow fluff. He returned the look, “What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You were…chipper when I dropped you off,” He pointed out. “That was mere hours ago, surely, _something_ has to have happened.”

“Yes, you are annoying me just now, that is happening.”

“Anatole.”

“It is nothing.”

Dolokhov frowned and then sat on the edge of the bed, Anatole pulled his foot away from him but other than that didn’t move, “How was the, uh, practice? Yeah, practice. Did you learn the piece?”

“I need more practice.”

Dolokhov shot him a look that Anatole did not meet but said nothing.

Anatole filled the silence inanely, “Bring me my violin from the desk, Fedya. The bow is in the case.”

He sighed, “Are you hurt?”

“My violin.”

“Answer my question.”

“No.”

Dolokhov clenched his fists into his lap before releasing them when he noticed Anatole staring. He kept the frustration from his voice but just barely, “Would you tell me if you were?”

“…there are no secrets between us, Fedya.”

“The absence of the truth is still a lie, Anatole,” He told him. “Don’t lie to me, Anatole, I am your friend.”

“I – I’m not hurt.”

“Let me see your face.”

“He doesn’t hurt my face anymore,” Anatole whined but allowed himself to be pulled into a seated position by the collar of his shirt. _Anymore_ , he did not even realize how horrible a word that was but Dolokhov did and it made him angry. “See, Fedya, I am – stop it!”

Dolokhov didn’t stop because he had been around this block more than once and knew where to look before Anatole understood that he should hide it. He tugged on the collar of his shirt until the buttons pulled apart and he could fold the stiff fabric down to reveal the pale column of his throat.

Anatole swallowed hard, gnawing on his lip, and Dolokhov hummed his discontent at the begging of discoloration in finger-like splotches appeared on the skin.

Anatole pried his hand away and held it while he fixed the collar with the other, “It was-“

“Don’t say an accident.”

“It was not an accident,” Anatole scoffed in the annoying way he did when he wanted to be right and knew he wasn’t. “It was – it was a game, a childhood game.”

“Called abuse.”

“Don’t say that, that is not what this is.”

“Then what is it, Anatole?” He asked, rubbing his thumb across Anatole bony knuckles, feeling the rough pads of his fingertips against the inside of his hand. “Explain it to me then.”

“It is – I, uh… it is ridiculous, horribly stupid,” Anatole muttered without flair. He tried to pull his hand away to curl over in the bed but Dolokhov did not allow it. “It’s just – no, it’s stupid.”

“You are hurt – bruised,” He corrected before Anatole could get bitchy about semantics. “The meaning of why is not stupid, not to me. I can asked your father why he-“

“No!” Anatole startled, a fistful of Dolokhov’s collar in his slender hand as if he would be able to hold him there. He let go, freighted casualness, leaning back into the many pillows on the bed and not letting go of his hand. “I mean, I – I never said it was him.”

“You did not need to,” Dolokhov sighed. This felt like a dirty tactic but it had always been an effective one to getting information from Anatole. “I will simply ask as to why your father dec-“

“He is very busy, Fedya. I’ll play better next time.”

“Your reasoning is skewed, too far. It is not your fault. Tell me what’s wrong?”

“My father is angry,” Anatole told him, squeezing his hand so he had no doubt that he held Dolokhov’s attention. His eyes were serious as they looked into his. “I didn’t do anything, I swear it.”

“Why is he angry?”

“I inquired about a loan, not for myself.”

“So, there are debtors?”

Dolokhov did not know if he should be angry at being lied to or sad that Anatole was stupid enough to speak to his father about it in person. He opened his mouth to comment on the matter but Anatole spoke first.

“No, there are no debtors,” He stated tiredly. “It is for Hélène. I explained that to him and he got angrier and I – I don’t understand why. She is his favorite.”

Dolokhov felt something freeze in him and a cold wispy anger swept through him as he remembered Anatole and Hélène spoke on the stairs. He asked stiffly, “You have no idea?”

“He said something about dishonor,” Anatole shrugged, rubbing at his throat. “I was, uh, distracted. Is that important?”

Anatole nudged him when he got no answer and asked again, “Is that important, Fedya?”

“Uh, I have no idea.”

Anatole sighed, leaning forward so his forehead was pressed into Dolokhov’s shoulder. He could see the bruise forming at the base of Anatole’s neck down his collar and he felt _guilty_. It was him, he was the reason for the bruises, for Anatole’s confusion, and his pain.

And it occurred for the very first time that he was following through with Hélène’s blackmail so not to lose his friend, to lose Anatole, but… But to run away and elope meant that he was leaving Anatole behind.

He was to leave Anatole behind with no one to protect him, nowhere to go, and a father so cruel and cold. He ran his fingers through Anatole’s hair and pressed a kiss in the hair above his ear.

“Hélène believes that I should return to service,” Anatole said softly. “She told me today, after the cemetery before – before all this.”

“Service?”

“Early,” He clarified. “She does not want me here. I don’t believe I upset her but-“

“I don’t believe it is possible for you to,” He matched his soft tone. “She wants what is best for you, Anatole.”

“She wants me to die,” He stated, panic overrunning the exhaustion that crept into his voice. “That is what will happen if I return now, they will send me to the – the Caucasus and I will be slain or worse.”

“Anatole-“

“I don’t wish to return,” he stated. “Not until – not until I am needed back in Poland. There is talk that I could – I could be a translator for French prisoners, I would rarely see battle then.”

“This is nice,” Dolokhov said softly, running his hand down the back of Anatole’s uniform. “I hope that you get it.”

“I will,” He answered. “Makarin is gone, Alexi is to take leave when I return for his pregnant wife, and I will get the position but if I return before I should they will find place for me elsewhere. I am not going.”

“Anatole-“

“Hélène does not always know what is best,” He said. “She told me I should not befriend fools I meet in market places but I befriend you and I have – there has never been a day I have regretted that.”

Dolokhov supposed he should have filled with a sense of joy, of warmth and heat, but he felt nothing but cold. He was a fake, a liar, the reason Anatole got hurt today, would get hurt when Vasili caught word of who it was Hélène ran off with, “Anatole, I need to tell you something.”

“Later,” He muttered, his arms snaking around Dolokhov’s tense frame. He melted against the touch. “Just – stay?”

“It is important.”

“Tell me then,” Anatole told him, pulling his head from his shoulder to meet Dolokhov’s eyes. They were blue, and shiny, and curious, and Dolokhov loved them more than anything. “There is nothing between us, mon cher.”

“I-“

“Anatole.”

They both jumped at the addition to their conversation, pulling away from each other and looking to the door. Hélène was standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips and her eyes a fire as they glared into Dolokhov’s, “Dear brother, a servant told me what transpired. I am so sorry to have caused it.”

“You did not cause anything,” Anatole assured her. “I was – I did not pick up the violin piece as quickly as I should, I frustrated him before asking. I should have-“

“That is enough.”

“Fedya-“

“No, no more guilt, Anatole,” He snapped. “You are not the guilty here. The reasons do not matter.”

“But-“

“No, Dolokhov is correct,” Hélène sighed. “Rest, dear brother. I wish to have a word with your assassin in the hall, if you do not mind.”


	6. Chapter 6

“What are you doing?” She asked in a hiss that sounded almost steam-like, full of heat but held no substance. Dolokhov did not care for it as he ripped his arm from beneath her guiding hand. “You were going to _tell_ Anatole? You are trying to ruin all of this!”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’ll tell Anatole,” She threatened, gesturing and then shoving him into an empty unused bedroom. “I will tell him many of things. We can all share our secrets, Fedya. Is that what it is that you want?”

“I want none of this, Hélène, you are the one that pulled me into this.”

“Then play your part!” She snapped. “What is it that has given you such cold feet? You were preparing hours ago.”

“Your father knows.”

She breathed in sharply, crossing her arms over her chest stiffly, “No, he doesn’t.”

“Dishonor, Hélène, _dis-honor_ , who else could that have been directed at?” He hissed, taking up a jagged pace. “He knows of your plan, he knows that it is me. Who do you think that his anger will be taken out on now?”

“How would he know?” She hissed back, stopping his pace by standing in front of him and refusing to move. “Was it you that told him? Was it Balaga? I did not tell a soul. How could he know?”

“I’ve talked to no one,” He snapped, running his fingers into his messy hair. “Balaga would keep his word, it is you that speaks in abundance of the issue in the market place.”

“No one was listening in.”

“What of the servants?” He asked. “What of them, they are with you constantly and they gossip worse than bored princesses.”

Hélène paused, her teeth gritting together and she looked away. Dolokhov knew exactly the reason, “You see now, he knows. It will be Anatole that pays the price, you know that.”

“…Papa has been cruel but never for unjust reasons.”

The saddest part of it was that she allowed herself to believe that. When you grew up viewing the world as nothing more than strings for you to pull, string to use, manipulate, destroy, cut, then all you see are the results and the reactions.

Hélène had never seen the motions of it, just the results. She could compartmentalize the abuse because she never saw it with her own eyes. She saw the tears, she watched as servants fixed bandages over cuts, and insisted that he wear long sleeves in the blazing summer sun but she never saw it happen. She never witnessed a slap so hard that it still haunted dreams, she never saw the anger in his eyes, the fright in Anatole.

She knew logically where it came from, how it all happened, and a part of her was scared of it when she allowed herself to feel anything other than superior.

She saw that her father got the results he wanted, that people quaked with fear and respect at his boots. She saw that her wayward troublesome brother stood straighter, respected more, that he acted the way a prince should when their father was around. A part of her craved the same respect, desired to be feared by those below her and held in such high regards in society’s eyes.

Hélène thought she knew everything and Dolokhov thought it too for a very long time but she does not understand that there is no reason justifiable for abuse.

Dolokhov felt sinking into his snowy gut all the times he failed his friend, failed his sister for allowing her to find reason in fury, in abuse. He failed.

“And what reasons could there be, Hélène?”

“There-“

“Like playing the violin in the market?” He asked, voice calmer than his fast beating heart and the blood rushing in his ears. “Because he was slapped then, in front of people, and shook by his shirt collar. I saw it with my eyes, I heart it. I did nothing then and the next day he had those same bruises on his neck.”

“I didn’t say-“

“What reasons, Hélène, justifies fingerprints bruised on your neck?” He asked. “Stepping on some dreadful princess’ toes? Being late for a dinner party, befriending a street urchin because that is what he thinks of me and my _disposition_. What reasons, not learning the violin fast enough?”

“Don’t ridiculous.”

“Don’t be a fool,” He challenged back. ‘It does not suit you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared down her nose at him, something cold burnt inside his heart at it. He felt himself pleading, “See reason, Hélène, you have to.”

“He does not know, Dolokhov, do you think he would not be here if he did?”

“He does not know I am here,” Dolokhov stated. “I am sure if he did, I would find a gun pressed into my chest. Have you spoke with him since being back?”

“…No.”

“You see, now, yes?” He asked. “Call this damned thing off, Hélène. For Anatole’s sake.”

“No,” She said though her teeth after a moment passed slowly between them. “I will not marry that man, Fedya, we have to elope. Father will be angry but he will-“

“Can Anatole take it?” He asked. “Do not put distance between yourself and that thought, _princess_. He took the hit for your loan that you wanted and he blames himself when it is your fault, it is _my_ fault. I never should have agreed to this.”

“But you did because you love him. Follow through, Dolokhov.”

“Do you love him?” He asked. “You say that you do and yet, you will put him through this and-“

“Don’t you dare,” She snapped. “He is my brother, he is part of my soul, _if_ I love him? Do not insult me with inane questions.”

“Do not insult yourself by pretending that you do not see how this ends,” He replied softly. “A successful elopement or not, you know the way that this ends and that it ends bloody.”

She looked away, her face screwing up in thought and then she stated simply as if coming to the most logical solution, “I will send for Anatole when we make it to Poland.”

“Hélène-“

“I implore you to finish with your last arrangements, Dolokhov,” She told him coldly. “I am to make Anatole something to sooth his throat, I must be going.”

Dolokhov sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to hard that it drew tears to his eyes and then he straightened up. Hélène had swept already from the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts and he regret. He took to the door and crossed the hall.

He didn’t bother with a knock this time, pushing Anatole’s bedroom door open and silently trekking across the room to the other side of the bed. He crouched down until his chin was resting against the quilt, and he waited.

He waited unblinking and patient until blue eyes blinked open slowly, meeting his with surprise quickly masked, “Is Hélène upset with me?”

“She is upset with me,” Dolokhov said softly. “You have done nothing wrong in which she could form a negative opinion.”

He nodded once, yawning tiredly, “You are a good friend, mon cher.”

“As are you, prince,” He tried to smile, feeling as if the frozen seas behind his eyes were melting for the first time. “I lo- I care about you, Anatole, you are my best friend.”

“I know,” He said, his mouth pulling into a frown because he did not understand. “You are my best friend, as well, mon cher. What is this about? I have not seen you this dejected since I spent my summer in Paris.”

Dolokhov offered a smile, tried to and from Anatole’s falling face, he knew he failed. “I am well, Anatole, it is you I worry about.”

He smiled back uneasily and tried to joke, “Fedya, you always worry.”

Anatole took one of Dolokhov’s hands in his own and pressed it to his chest, “I am alive, mon cher, can you feel it?”

“Yes.”

“Then there is no need to worry, it is horribly stupid to do so,” He told him. “We are in Petersburg, there is no safer place to be. The war is many, many miles away.”

“That is true, yes, the war is away.”

“There is no need for your sad face then,” Anatole told him, sitting up. His hair was a messy in every direction, ruffled and flat all at once and he smiled a bright dazzling grin as carefree as Anatole took care to appear to be. “We live to love another day, mon cher, we must go to the club tonight. We must dance and be merry, and we can- we can room at the Inn for the night and continue to drink until we cannot anymore.”

“That sounds lovely, Anatole.”

“Then why do you look so miserable?” He asked. “It is not because the bruises? I am fine, I told you.”

“I believe you,” He nodded. “I cannot go to the club, Anatole.”

“Why not?”

“I am leaving town tonight,” He stated and Anatole’s brows furrowed confused and hurt. “I am unsure when I will be returning but I will write, I assure you.”

“Where are you-“

“I need a favor of you, Anatole,” He cut off. “It is – pay me back the debts you own me with this.”

Anatole nodded and Dolokhov continued, “I wish that you stay with my mother until I return, can you do that?”

“I don’t understand, where-“

“She is old, as you know, she will need aid and she enjoys your company,” He stated. “I will send money so it is not a worry, it will put my heart at ease to know that she is looked after and-“

“That I am looked after?” He asked, crossing his arms. “I am not a child, Dolokhov, I do not need your mother to pretend to be mine.”

“That is not what I am asking and you know it.”

“You think that I am in danger in my own room,” He scoffed. “You are – it is delusions, Fedya, I am safe where I am.”

“Anatole-“

“I will visit your mother, you have my word,” He told him. “I will make sure that she is healthy and that your home remains one but I will not stay there because you think my father-“

“He is an awful man, Anatole, he has hurt you and he will do it-“

“No, he won’t.”

“Anatole,” He felt his eyes overfilling, felt fear creep into his bones, and felt Anatole’s heart beat in a painful rhythm beneath his hand. “Anatole, ple-“

“Dolokhov.”

He pulled his hand back, met Hélène’s cold eyes in the doorway and felt himself go numb at the threat in them. She kept the sneer from her voice, just barely, “Anatole, tell Fedya goodbye, he must be going.”

“Anat-“

“I will be seeing you, Fedya,” Anatole said stiffly, arms still crossed. He refused to meet his gaze. “I wish you safe journey on your trip.”

“You can’t-“

“I have made my oath, Fedya, there is no need to say anything else,” He snapped and then forced himself to calm into a stiff monotone, “I wish to rest, please.”

Dolokhov’s shoulders slumped and his heart froze over. He offered one last goodbye before walking from the room.

Hélène met his eyes in the doorway and she knew what he felt, she won.


	7. Chapter 7

“I do not like you, Hélène.”

He didn’t turn to his ever-present shadow, didn’t look upon the dark cloud hovering over his shoulder on this terrible, terrible day. He had no need to, he knew that she was there, that she was _always_ there with her harsh judgement and her critical eyes.

Dolokhov could feel her smugness and self-satisfaction like a wall of smothering summer heat, like choking in his lungs. He could feel it jab and cut like a dull knife grating ever so slowly against the inside of his eyes. It was taunting at its most elegant.

“I well-remember you telling me such on many occasions, Fedya.”

“I do not _like_ you, Hélène,” He repeated the words, stressing them through clenched teeth, hurling them over high guarded emotion and a crumbling composure. He hated her so much.

Dolokhov could not walk through the door, stopping before it. He could not force his feet to take a step forward, could not command his hand to reach for the handle, he could not walk through it. He couldn’t leave the manor that he hated so very much.

He did not consider all the factors as to why, he did not want to, “I have cared little for you but Anatole is my friend.’”

“But are you still his?” She asked, taunted. “He tires so easily of the company of those who think he is incapable and weak.”

“Be careful of your father,” He continued, ignoring the jab in her words and the way they struck his face sharper than any winter wind. “He will be angry and he will hurt you if you are not careful.”

“My father has never raised a hand to me and he will not start today.”

Dolokhov sighed and she swept passed him to lean against the door that he could not walk through. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a long critical stare as if she could read ever line on his face and all of his shameful intentions, all the ways that she could manipulate and use him. She looked to him and she saw all the ways that she won, and she felt satisfied.

He met her eyes with defiance and a cold judgment of his own. She had won this battle, she had won the war, but Dolokhov vowed never to go peacefully and he would _not_ bow his head and take this. He bit hard with words and spite, and he hit where he knew that he’d hurt her the most, “It is only your brother that faces the wraths that you manufacture?”

 Her teeth gritted audibly, “Do not presume that you know-“

“I know _enough_ , Hélène,” He snapped. “I do not need to presume anything because I _know_. I have seen it, I have wrapped the same cuts and bruises as you and I’ve listened to the same excuses you are trying to make now.”

“You know-“

“Do _not_ tell me that I don’t know,” He hissed a cold and frightening anger, an assassin’s anger. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and shaking, and Hélène’s mouth snapped shut. “You forget that I know what it is that happens behind these big closed doors. _I_ know.”

“I know you love him,” He stated coldly. “I know what you feel when you see the injuries and the hurt because I lov- Anatole is important to me, I want him to find the happiness that he is searching for and he will not find it if you are not with him, if you are hurt, so heed my warning, Hélène.”

He stressed, “ _Be careful_ , Hélène.”

“You are a fool, Dolokhov, and stuck with your stupid delusions if you think that I care so little for my brother that I would chose my own self-interest over his.”

“Pull the shades from your eyes, Hélène, that is what you are doing!”

Her eyes narrowed to a fine point and indignant ran over any fright she might have felt as his cold assassin’s calm cracked into the rage of a fierce man. She ran her tongue along her top row of teeth like she always did when she knew she’d enjoy this particular verbal skewering. And then she smiled.

It was something girlish and young, and more disturbing than anything Dolokhov has seen since the battlefield. She said in a voice sickly sweet and lighter than perfume air, “Are you going or coming from the market, dear Pierre?”

“Oh, I, uh-“ Pierre was an unusual and awkward man of too many oddities and quirks that Dolokhov found it all to be a grating annoyance. He was too big, and too tall, and awkward, and sad, and _smart_. He brought a guilt upon Dolokhov in drowning waves of ice. He walked too softly for a man of his stature, felt too small in his large bones.

Dolokhov did not hear Pierre’s approach and he forced himself not to stiffen at voice or the way Pierre startled at being addressed in his peripheral vision, “Oh, um, I – I am going, to the market. Not returning.”

He appeared to be surprised at being spoken to and Dolokhov felt a kind of pity rise in him and crash into his snowy gut as he realized that Pierre probably hadn’t spoken much to anyone that didn’t have an ulterior motive behind it. “Is there anything I can retrieve for you from the market?”

“Anatole has had a dreadful day, strawberries make him happy.”

There was no question in Hélène’s voice, just expectancy, and Pierre complied to her unspoken demand, “I will keep my eyes open for them. Is there anything that you wish for me to find for you?”

She hummed as if she in thought and then her girlish smile turned to something baseless and cringing, and it set Dolokhov’s teeth on edge and his hair on end. He knew that he’d dread her next words, “Allow Fedya to accompany you through the market. He must travel through it to get home, it is not too much to ask.”

“Uh, no, of course not,” Pierre nodded eagerly and fiddled with his empty burlap sack. “I would – I would enjoy the company.”

Dolokhov did not speak and Pierre did not say another word but they both walked in the same direction at a similar pace.

When discomfort grew from awkward to unbearable levels, everybody eventually reverted to the basic rules of society. Pierre had been no different in that instance, the silence gave way to observations of inconsequential things and the greeting of people that knew them both, gave way to questions with no expected answer, to inane talking.

Dolokhov ignored him. He said nothing.

He paused at the corner of the street that lead to his house and he turned to the much larger man. He sighed, “May I offer you advice?”

Pierre looked surprised but nodded, “Of course.”

“Stay away from the Kuragins,” He warned him, felt an obligation to this man worm into his soul and infect his cold persona. He felt a rush of hot frustration and unjust anger that the man could not see what was so obvious. “They are not worth the pain they cause and trouble that they bring. Get out before you too twisted in their complications to find a way out.”

Pierre’s face pulled together in a puppy-like confusion and Dolokhov hated him even more, “I don’t understand your meaning, Anatole is a great friend of-“

“Anatole is no friend of mine any longer,” Dolokhov stated harshly and quickly to avoid the hurt of it and he _failed_. His heart felt empty, and cold, and wintery in a way that numbed him, in the way of war had left him. “And Hélène, she is not what she appears to be.”

She was a snake in the grass, deadly and ready to strike, and ruined, and _destroy_ everything that he had. She stayed hidden behind such pretty society smiles and fancy words but she meant none of it. She was danger in satin and lace, and no one saw it until the damage was too far done. Why could no one _see_ it?

Pierre’s eyes shifted from their narrow confusion, to apprehension, and then to wide naïve kind of disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak but no words fell from it so Dolokhov continued, “It is always an act with her and she cares only for her amusement, not for you nor for me. You do not want to be tangled into the messes she creates.”

Finally, _finally_ , Pierre responded in the way that Dolokhov anticipated genuinely good men would, “You should not speak such hostilities for a woman held in such high regard by society.”

“Society is no more real than an act in an opera,” Dolokhov replied. “She is playing a part to an end and she does not care if you get hurt, or shamed, or killed. She does not care for anybody – not me, not Anatole, and not _you_ – but herself, only.”

“Hélène has great care for her family, her brother.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

Pierre’s eyes narrowed even further, “It is in bad taste to speak ill of a family that has opened their doors to both you and myself. I have seen no ill will brought forth by any Kuragin.”

Dolokhov sighed because Pierre did not and would not see it until it was too late. For all of Pierre’s studying and his schooling, he was blinded by a pretty smile and paper-thin act.

He felt an anger for it, for the education that meant nothing, for the man that was too kind, and too gentle, and too good, and _too stupid_ not to see that he was being used, that he would be screwed over. He felt anger, and guilt, and sadness for the loss of his friend and the inability, the lack of time, to make it better. He felt angry, and lost, and alone, and so, so cold. He felt a helplessness that he would not return from.

 _You are not looking close enough_ , Dolokhov wanted to say. _You are a fool,_ he wanted to say _. An idiot._

He reached inside his coat’s inner lining and pulled a flask from it and he said instead, “You are right.”

He conceded and Pierre’s narrow eyes turned to a surprised but superior gaze, and he nodded with more confidence at his own rightness, “Good, I am glad that you see my reasoning.”

“Here is to the health of married women,” He said, lifting the flask in a toast. Pierre did the same despite the absence of a flask. “And their lovers.”

He took a drink and turned on his feet, and he said not another word but felt a vicious glee at the confusion that twisted into Pierre’s features.

 

The market did not have strawberries.

Between the French and the winter, fruit was hard to come by but Pierre managed to haggle the price for raspberries. He arrived back to the manor with fruit, two books, paper and ink. He walked quietly up the stairs and followed the sound of music traveling through the long halls.

He stopped at the door and raised his hand to knock, and then waited. His hand falling to his side.

All Kuragins were beautiful in one way or another but Anatole has always simply been breathtaking, captive in a sweet naïve and charming way that was different from the others. He watched through the crack in the door at the way Anatole glided around the floor as played the violin, eyes closed and a low hum beneath the music. He looked focus, looked peaceful.

He stepped as if he was performing a well-remembered dance, graceful and at ease as he moved so easily around the room, and he played. It was a show all on its own.

Anatole had shed the thick uniform jacket he was wearing earlier in the day down to thin nearly translucent silk tunic beneath it. The fabric shifted as he shifted, and Pierre found himself mesmerized and horrified by the dark blossoming of discolored skin beneath it.

Pierre felt something cold in him when he realized exactly what the blossoming was across his ribs and wrapped around his bicep. He dropped the raspberries from slack hands.

A vicious and harsh sound echoed around the room as Anatole startled from his trance and the bow struck an awful cord against the strings. He turned on his feet quickly and then greeted with a genuine smile, “Pierre, old man.”

Pierre swallowed hard and ducked his head at being caught spying but he entered the room anyways, “Hello, Anatole.”

“Was it the music that brought you or is it me that you wish to see?” Anatole asked, placing the violin on the top of the table with a care and gentleness that he did nothing else with.

“I, uh, I-“ Pierre stuttered, unable to take the stricken look from his face as he could not help but notice the subtle ways that Anatole moved so not to cause discomfort to his bruised ribs. “Hélène said that you enjoyed fruit.”

“Strawberries, yes, that is correct,” Anatole nodded, an odd quirk of confusion on his face. Pierre felt as if his face matched it but odd conversation continued. “Hélène is never wrong.”

“I am becoming aware of that,” He replied and tried to smile. He took a quick breath and choked on it, “I – I dropped them on the floor.”

“They are in a bag, mon cher, I do believe that they are fine,” Anatole replied, scooping up the bag from the floor in a movement most graceful but somehow stilted, a movement that rose his shirt and revealed a sickly green and yellow splattering of healing days old bruises mixed with awful new ones.

Anatole opened the bag curiously, retreating to sit on the edge of the table. He quirked an eyebrow, “Pierre, these are raspberries.”

“The market did not have strawberries – how did you sustain your injuries?”

Anatole paused, a raspberry wrapped in his tongue before disappearing into his mouth. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as if he was savoring the flavor or buying time. Then he stated simply, “I do not know what it is you are referring to, mon cher. Injury? I have none.”

“The – there are bruises on you,” He stated, pressing the issue as Anatole pulled on his sleeves. “I see them through your shirt, you have been hurt.”

“I – I fell,” He stated quickly. “On the stairs, _down_ the stairs. I, uh, I tripped. I was drunk.”

If Pierre was unimpressed by the clear lie, he said nothing of it. He said nothing of Anatole’s sudden desire to return to his jacket and put it on, he only asked, “And of your neck?”

“What?”

“What of the bruises on your neck, where did those come from?”

Anatole bounced uncomfortably on his feet before his nervous energy shifted into a sly smirk, into an act as thin as paper, “I…I don’t kiss and tell, Pierre.”

“Yes, you do, all the time,” He sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Those are not the mark of a woman, Anatole.”

“How would you know?” He asked back, defensively. “Hélène has been busy in far too many days to remind you of such, _if_ she has reminded you at all.”

He picked up his violin and rested it on his shoulder but Pierre startled him into stillness, “It looks like fingerprints.”

He held his big, big hands up and Anatole did not shield away when as Pierre compared his to the bruised smudging of fingers nimble, and thin, and long, “An-“

“It is from the violin, obviously, not from – from anybody else.”

“That is a dreadfully terrible lie, Anatole, you do not expect me to believe it?” He asked of him. “How did you sustain them?”

Anatole readjusted his violin but he did not play. His act felt stale and flat, and broken, though he performed it as he always had, “I do not criticize what you do in the bedroom, now do I?”

“I did not see bruises on you this morning.”

“I have-“

“You did not meet a girl in the courtyard of the cemetery,” Pierre said flatly. “You respect your mother far too much for that.”

Anatole looked away and then sighed. The weighing of situations played across his face heavily and then he met Pierre’s eyes, “I was in an altercation. I am fine, the injuries are not long lasting.”

“An altercation with who?”

Anatole made a choking noise as if he did not expect a question so obvious and expected. He hummed lowly and then stated, “It is of no importance now.”

“Was it Dolokhov?” He asked.

“What? No, Fedya-“

“He was irritable in the market place,” Pierre recounted. “He said you had a falling out, you ceased your friendship.”

“No, no, that is not right. Fedya is my friend and I am his. It has always been that way,”

“That is not what I was told in the market place.”

Anatole hummed, a hurt and confused look pulling his mouth into a frown before smoothing out into nothing. He sounded princely, “Very well.”

“Anatole-“

“Dolokhov is no cause of my injuries, no one is,” He stated. “The worst pain Fedya could cause to me is a wound of the heart and he has caused it, as we are not friends any longer according to you. I need to practice, Pierre.”

“Anatole.”

“I am in no mood for conversation or fruit today, I-“

There was a startling crash in the room below and a feminine and frightened cry through the floorboards, and Anatole was gone with only word on his lips, “Hélène!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few things: (1) Accounting sucks, don't major in it. (2) It is apparent a common theme in my Great Comet words that someone will accuse Dolokhov of causing injuries, and (3) I wrote a complete outline of the rest of this story in Auditing on Monday so I at least know where we are going.


	8. Chapter 8

“Father, I was told that you wish to speak to-“ Hélène paused, the words sticking to the tip of her tongue and refusing to fall the way frozen ice did on cold winter days. Then the words melted into nothing, melted away, and her own icy demeanor thawed.

His eyes were no flicker of an irritated flame, no gasoline saturated disappointment or warm injustice, it was fire. Just fire. It was whole cities and Russian countryside engulfed and destroyed in flames so hot they burnt blue in their centers.

She felt a coldness in her veins like no other, “Father?”

“What is it?” She freighted a concern similar to the concern she held with every letter that arrived while Anatole was abroad, with dread in her voice and curiosity in her eyes. It was manufactured concern now, fake the way she practiced and they both knew it. “Is something the matter?”

“Is there, Hélène?”

Dolokhov’s voice seeped into her consciousness, flat and dull, and knowing – ‘ _be careful… he will hurt you’ –_ and she pushed all of his words from her mind as she saw what this question really was. It was a trick, a trap, a question with no expected answer because every answer was expected to be a lie.

She resisted the urge to bite her lip, to show any kind of waiver in her confidence that she knew he was looking for, so instead she frowned. Her brows pulled together and lips pulled down in the perfect displace of worry because no answer was a lot like a confirmation in her eyes and she knew it to be the same for her father, “Is it the war, Papa?”

“There are talks of Napoleon coming for Petersburg,” She continued, stepping into the room farther and father to show that she had no fear, nothing to hide, stopping beside his wooden desk. “Pierre tells me of it. He says the Tabernakulovs have already left for the country in anticipation.”

“War concerns are for men and waiting wives, not for you.”

This was their level, their roles and scripts that were performed and played out with routine and ease. It was familiar ground, verbal chess, and she knew how to play this game, “I have always been curious.”

“Yes, I know. I suppose that you should like to know of the war efforts?”

She didn’t, actually. “Oh yes, of course.”

“As you will be a waiting wife yourself soon enough, you should know then, yes?”

“Excuse me?” She asked after his words registered in her thoughts. She felt a heart-fluttering surprise sink into her gut too encompassing to even be shocked. “I do not know what you are talking about, Papa, has Pierre decided to-“

“You know what it is I am referring.”

“I am afraid that I don’t, Papa.”

“Is this not what your errands were?” He asked in a loud empty hiss, a void that threatened more than emotion ever did. It had never been directed to her before, she felt icy and cold. “Planning an elopement to that foolish assassin.”

He slammed his fist down onto the dark wood of the desk in his anger and the contents on the top shook violently before Hélène could offer any artificial confusion about assassins and what he meant by his words. The music filtering from above them stopped abruptly with an awful note, she felt a kind of fear seize her heart but it relaxed when she heard no traveling feet overhead. Anatole had not let his room.

Control was a power struggle and Hélène would rarely admit that she did not possess it but she was losing it in her father’s anger. She knew she must defuse the situation, make him see that his thoughts were silly. She breathed out and showed no fear on her face but a simple and hurt confusion.

“What is this, Father?”  She asked. “Have you decided to listen to every ridiculous rumor that passes by your ear? It is delusion of old faded princesses that are unhappy in their marriages and wish to ruin mine before it begins.”

“See reason, Papa,” She told him, laying her hand upon his closed fist and wiggling her fingers between his curled one until they were entwined the way she used to do as a child. It was a calculated move. “What would I do with an assassin for a husband?”

The move was calculated and every possible outcome thought out and considered, all except one. The equation she worked with, the calculations she made, it was all wrong and nothing added as they should.

He twisted her hand in a viscous grip, pulling her forward until her thigh hit the desk at the sharp angle and he trapped her with a strong hand at her throat. He did not press into her, just held her with overly warm hands and an unspoken threat. She met his eyes defiantly and stared into the blazing fire unblinking, “Do not lie to me, my daughter.”

“Papa, I-“

He pressed against her vocal cords and her words choked into nothing as she gasped at the pain, her eyes wide and out of her depth, her control, every plan she created. Her eyes misted over but he paid it no mind, “Anatole asked for a loan today, he said that it was for you.”

“It was,” She choked.

“Why?”

She said nothing, it was rhetorical at its most threatening. It was not an answer that he wished for now, he wanted a captive audience, wanted attention, to be heard, and she would give him exactly what it was that he wanted.

“Do you wish to shame me, shame yourself and this family?” He hissed. “I have arranged for you a wealthy husband, an academic to your liking and this is now you repay me? Have you no respect?”

He pushed her in his anger, rough and hard, and Hélène tripped on the hem of her dress, failing and taking the contents of a small tray with her. The noise shattered in glass and silver ink, and she felt the grind of shards in her elbow as she landed. The music above them had long since passed into silence but now replaced with running feet.

Hélène resisted a curse and willed a determination as hard as unthawed ice into her heart as she stood with a dignity only a princess could possess. She turned to her father and let a desperation she had never felt seep into her features, the situation grew out of her hand and it would get worse if she not put an end to it, “Father, I am sorry for what you have heard but it is _not_ true.”

She straightened out her dress and ignored the ink staining the fabric at her elbow, and she kept the desk between them. She met his eyes with a wobbling lip and wet eyes, and she played to the little girl he saw her to be, “I meant nothing insidious by asking for the loan, I just – I wanted to procure a bottle of fine wine for Pierre and I.”

“I have been so busy since Anatole has returned from service and I fear that I have neglected my – my betroth for favor of my brother and his friend. I wanted to present him with a gift of the French wine he has spoken of from his studies abroad, I did not-“

She took a breath, letting it come out shaky as if on the verge of tears and she tried to keep track of the seconds that ticked by and how fast it would take Anatole to rush down the halls and the stairs, “I fear that I must have been overheard saying something inappropriate.”

He raised an eyebrow and rage grew in his eyes but Hélène had anticipated that, watching and waiting for it be extinguished like a candle’s flame, “I spoke recently of a kiss presented to Fedya Dolokhov in my adolescence with my maids and servants, I fear that one of them formed the wrong opinion about my absence from Pierre’s side.”

“That is all?”

“Any disillusions pulled from a careless kiss as a young girl is on that in which spread the rumor you must have heard, not on me,” She stated. “Pierre is a lovely and generous man; any woman would be lucky to have him. It would do myself and my family a disservice to say no to his marriage proposal.” 

“What you wished for was wine?” He asked again and she fought the urge to bite her lip once more. “Ten thousand rubles is far too much for even the finest of wines, brought all the way from Paris.”

“…Anatole must have misheard me, Papa, it was loud and he is – is careless at times.”

He hummed and the rage fell back only slightly. Hélène allowed herself to breathe and found herself startled by a slap that sounded from her cheek, pain blossoming across her face.

She stumbled with the impact and he hissed, “Do lie to me, Elena. You forget who it was that taught you.”

Her hand rested against her stinging cheek and tears came to her eyes unwillingly, and she flinched when he shoved his chair back farther and walked from behind the desk.

She hated herself for the steps she took backwards, for wanting to run and hide herself in someone’s stronger arms. She opened her mouth as he came and stood in front of her, waiting, “Papa, you-“

“Quiet,” He hissed. “You will listen to me, my child, and then you will call off whatever ridiculous plan you think that you have and you _will_ marry Pierre Bezukhov.”

Hélène had never felt as small as she did in the shadow drawn from her father’s tall imposing figure as he approached her, never felt a grip as burning as the one he squeezed bruising into her forearm, “Father, you – you’re hurting me.”

He shook her and her head hit against the bookshelf behind her, and she felt the flicker of fear. A flicker turned to a flame, into a fire, into an inferno white and hot as her father’s grip was broken from her and she fell back into the shelving, “No.”

She curled around herself and flinched hard but the worst was to come, “Anatole, no, you must go, you must-“

“Do not touch her,” Anatole hissed in a shaky voice. Anatole had never hide his emotions well, never developed a society smile or mask of porcelain and paint, and he was _scared_. “You don’t-“

A slap resounded in the room broken only by harsh breathing and Hélène flinched as Anatole did but he had accepted the open palm hit and the one that followed it with only a gasp between them. He moved ever so slightly as to stand between her and their father. The shake in his voice was a quake and it encompassed his entire being but he stood frightened but determined, “Please-“

“The disrespect in this household,” Vasili hissed with another slap, and another, and a closed fist when Anatole’s compose snapped and he shielded from it. Before Hélène could breath, could call for a stop, Anatole was shoved hard into the bookshelf beside her with a hand pressed into his throat.

She was frozen, stuck and only able to watch everything unfold like a horrible opera, as Anatole’s face when pale and then red, and then he panicked as blue colored around his lips and pulled at the hand. It released ever so slightly and Anatole wheezed.

Vasili hissed lowly, threatening, a voice that Hélène could not hear in Anatole’s ear and her brother’s breath came out in shuttered gasps, pleading, “P’se, stop, s’rry.”

“’m sorry, ‘m sorry,” Anatole pleased lowly, as tears came to his eyes, as his head hit against the shelving once more as he shook hard by the hands on his throat and their father growled threats of unworthy sons, ungrateful children, _shameful stupid children._ “Don’t hurt her, please, I-“

Anatole’s voice broke off into a ‘ouff’ as he stuck in the stomach and he did not even have the breath to call out as he hit once more. The skin on his cheek broke but Hélène could not remember which hit had caused it.

“F-father, you – stop it! Stop it, please, you are hurting him!” Hélène’s voice grew strong in her hysterics, grew panicked, as Anatole scratched at the hand squeezing once more at his neck. “Father, he is-“

Hélène’s voice disappeared as soon as it came before she saw her father’s eyes, there was no blazing fire, no cold winter, just…satisfaction. He was enjoying himself and pain he caused, and she – she had no breath inside her to protest any longer, managing only whispered words, “Stop, please, he has done nothing wrong.”

“What is happening?” Spoke from behind her in a grumble of horrified vision and Anatole was released to slump against the shelving before knees gave out beneath him and stumbled to the floor.

Hélène ignored Pierre’s appearance in favor of rushing to her brother, to her Anatole. The last thing on her mind was public appearance when Anatole was hurt because of her, “Toto, I am so sorry, I didn’t know-“

He hugged her and kissed her stinging cheek, and everything fell away as their father began lame explanations for deaf ears until Pierre pulled him from the room with a suggestion of a walk to calm nerves. He did not even look behind him but Pierre had.

Pierre offered a sad and concerned look to Hélène as petted Anatole’s hair, a look that said that he could not understand but he offered broad shoulders and listening ears. She felt a warmth and a guilt, and so very grateful for it. She offered him a sad but grateful smile back.

When the footfall fell from their ears and they heard it no longer, Hélène did not hesitate to pull Anatole to his feet and all the way to a far off unused study they played in as children, “I never knew that it was so bad, Anatole, I did not – I failed you as a sister.”

“Are you hurt?” Anatole asked in a raspy whisper as if just entering the conversation, his concern echoed on his bruising face. “I was – He never hurt you before, he should never have-“

“Anatole-“

“Ippolit had the right idea,” He said suddenly, smiling around the blood at the corner of his lip, smiling something so…honest, and bitter, and masked. All at once, Hélène feared that she never knew how bad it was because Anatole could deceive her.

She feared that she did not know all the times that things were wrong, and he was hurting, and took it with poise and dignity, “Anatole, no.”

“He left,” Anatole said plainly, stating what they both knew. “He left when he could and he did not come back, except for holidays. Do you think that Papa-“

He paused, his mouth wobbling and then he sighed, speaking flatly, “Was it just me?”

“Anatole-“

“Is it me that he hates?” Anatole asked, “He struck you because of me, I did not have your charm or grace when asking for a loan and he-“

“No, Anatole. Nothing is your fault, you must understand that.”

“But-“

“Papa doesn’t hate you, he is just – it is the ways of the old princes and you-“

“I look like Mama,” He stated. “I am a reminder of what he lost and he – he hates me for it.”

Hélène sighed and said nothing, it was basically a confirmation then and Anatole took that way with a sharp nod and said, “It was the loan, that is why he hit you. Be honest with me, Hélène.”

She sighed, “Yes.”

“I am sorry.”

“Dolokhov was right,” She replied suddenly, thought she did not know what it was she was referring. “You did nothing wrong, I did not either. He is – he is a cruel man that enjoys cruel things and – promise me that you will not feel guilt.”

He nodded and asked the same of her, and they both lied, “I promise, Anatole, with my heart.”

She hugged him tight to her and let him relax in her arms, let his composure shake and give way, and she let him cry his silent tears. She sighed and willed the heat behind her eyes to burn away.

Dolokhov was right.

On so many different levels, Dolokhov had been right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I have stayed up late writing this? No. Did I? Yes.


	9. Chapter 9

Pierre did not find them.

Hélène tracked his heavy shuffling footfall through the creaking boards of the manor’s old floors, traced him through the echoed emptiness of silence and tension, through the taste of dust on her tongue, the unshed tears frozen in her eyes, and the sting of swollen flesh. She held her breath and she closed her eyes, and she prayed not to be found.

She prayed to silent gods and never answered prayers, to her mother useless in heaven, prayers turned to vicious litanies that the very _least_ that could be done was that she protected the son she left behind. She willed away the footsteps, willed away the childhood memories dredged up of the months after the funeral where everything shiny and bright tarnished and diminished into a fear that never truly faded, just became buried.

It was funny the way denial shifted ones of perception of their own history and how easily it could all be shattered.

She did not wish to be found, not by Pierre, not by anybody.

She did not want the lumbering footsteps or the emotions in her heart. She did not want anything more, just peace. And Anatole.

She wished only to hold her brother and never let go, to wrap her arms around his narrow waist and pull him close to her. She wished to shield his charming naivety and his bright-eyed simplicity from the worst of the world, the war, their father. She wished to remain untouched and unnoticed for all of eternity in Anatole’s arms, tucked away in a tiny cramped corner in a room long forgotten.

She wished to sit among the covered furniture and the books, on dusty cushions and pillows that they pulled from stiff-backed chairs and off leather couches. She wished to remain forever in the cocoon of protective white linen cloths draped across their shoulders like capes and blankets, wrinkling their noses at the musty smell and the dust in the air. She wished to live forever in a study overran with too many forgotten memories, and comfort, and old furniture.

She did not wish to be found.

Hélène cushioned Anatole’s resting head against her chest as the steps inching closer brought tension to his shoulders as he worried the skin of thumb between sharp teeth absentmindedly in his half-awake state. She curled her fingers into his messy hair as the footfall paused with only the wall between them. She heard a sigh, deep and heavy, and sad.

Pierre had no right to be sad, she thought bitterly, petting and hushing Anatole until he relaxed under her touch once more. It was not Pierre’s face that was slapped, it was not his brother bruised and hurt, and it was not his fault.

She sighed internally to herself and rolled her aching eyes before distributing Anatole’s weight from her side to the cushions, pulling his thumb from his teeth and curling his hands together at his stomach. He was uncomfortably complacent in her handling, offered no comment or inappropriate suggestion.

He was not quite asleep, he might as well have been.

He’d never looked peaceful when he slept, just vulnerable and weak.

She sighed to herself, her fingertips ghosting along the dry smear of the cut on his cheek, the one he complained nothing of the pain or the drops of blood that seeped into and ruined her dress even more. Her phantom touch trailed from the cut spoiling her brother’s perfection to the swell of bruises on sharp cheekbones, down the lines of tender fingerprints pressed unforgiving into his neck.

Anatole’s breath shuttered and she knew him not to be as asleep as he wished to appear but she allowed him to keep the façade. She sighed as her fingers traveled his neck down his open collar and across the ugly bruises gathered at his collarbone.

She did not need to see the bruises that marred the pale plains of his back. She knew that they were there, often there, hidden and maintained. She sighed once more, deep and world-heavy, and pressed a kiss to Anatole’s forehead and then to his lips.

She gathered her wits and her shattered mask, and she climbed to her feet only for a hand to wrap around her ankle, “I am to return, Toto, you do not have to worry.”

“Have him return with a bottle from Papa’s collection,” Anatole mumbled, eyes still closed. “We deserve a drink.”

“You get over-emotion when you drink in this state, Anatole,” She told him. “It is embarrassing to watch and even more so to be on the receiving end of that affection.”

His brows pulled together, “I – I do not!”

Her face cracked into a smirk that he couldn’t see and she shook her leg loose of his hand, “Sit tight, brother, I will return when I do.”   

 

“What is that you want, Pierre?”

He was startled by her appearance in the doorway, at her sudden words and her voice as sharp as a warrior’s sword, the way she remained so stoic and beautiful despite the bruises, despite the filth and ruin on her dress. He’d never seen Hélène look anything other than ethereal, never seen her as anything but strong.

She learned against the doorframe in a manner that could have portrayed casualness but appeared more as if she was blocking the room he had in interest in venturing into. She stared at him expectantly with one eyebrow raised.

He was meant to speak, “Oh, I-“

“I do not have the patience for your bumbling, Pierre,” She stated harshly and he blushed at the words, shuffling his large feet. “I have had a tiring day and am in no mood for it.”

“I see.”

“So, spit out the words you wish to say or stop haunting my halls like a damned ghost.”

“Are you-“ He paused, fumbling with his glasses for a moment before signing. He did not know what to do with his hands once they were back on his face and settled on holding him in front of him awkwardly, “I only wish to check on your wellbeing and that of your brother’s. I know that he would not be far.”

Hélène’s expression did not change and she did not look back into the room thought it was almost palpable how much she desperately wanted to, wanted to see that her brother was there and though damaged, not shattered. Pierre watched as she closed the door carefully and then rested her hands on the round of her hips, tapping her painted nails. It was something that he recognized as nervous energy within her.

Hélène had never cared for weakness and she wouldn’t wrap her arms around herself as he imagined she wished to do. He overcame his own urges to provide a comfort, to wrap his own large arms around her because he knew she would not accept it, “I did not check, was he alright?”

“Anatole will be perfect, he always is,” She said candidly, almost flippantly, and pulled the door shut behind her. “Papa lost his temper, it was a moment of poor judgment and he meant nothing by it. There is nothing to concern yourself with.”

“I saw the bruises, today,” He stated and her breath turned into an internal hiss at Anatole’s carelessness, _stupid child_. “He claimed ridiculous falsehoods about their origins, I knew him to be lying but I hadn’t thought-“

“Now you know,” She said flatly, there was no reason to continue deceptions if he could see behind the curtain. There was no reason for many things, this conversation included, “Have you come to your point?”

“I blamed Fedya Dolokhov.”

“You…” Hélène trailed off into a mechanical voice, her jaw working and lips curling as if they were beginning to rust. Her words like a typewriter with too little use until it broke into something incredulous and unbelieving. “You blamed Dolokhov for Anatole’s bruises?”

“I know of his reputations,” Pierre justified. “I know what is said about him in the circles of military generals and soldiers, of his cruel…intentions. It is not that far-fetched.”

“…it is laughable,” She stated, rolling her eyes. “Dolokhov is very fond of my brother, they have been the best of friends since childhood. He would never wish to harm him.”

“I see that now.”

Her smirk appeared once more as if they were sharing a joke, though he did not know it, “Do you see it now?”

“I… what is it that you mean by that?”

“My father would never cause harm that is permanent,” She said primly, either not caring or not realizing the horrible implication of such a statement. Pierre felt a sickness overcome him as her eyes narrowed to a point, “You can strip that look of pity from your face, Pierre. He has never harmed me before.”

“Until today,” Pierre’s voice was a ghostly echo, the reverberations in mocking confirmation of all of Fedya’s unheeded warnings. “Permanent or not, no one should raise a hand to a woman or their child.”

She sighed.

She felt none of the unjust or offense needed to bring forward justifications for actions not her own, felt no desire to protect her father’s name, the Kuragin name. She felt only a shiver up her spine at the remembrance of her father’s vicious satisfaction pressed into her mind, of Anatole’s blue lips and pleading eyes, and the way her father took so much joy from it.

She had found reason in every bruise and cut, could rationalize scars and cruel fist for years. She had told Anatole to accept it, to try his hardest to be different, better than he was, better than he could be. She had told him, in lesser words, that cruel words and crueler hands were his own doing, that he should know better.

She had been wrong, she realized, but routines were hard to break.

“Papa is not a bad man.” She did not believe her words. “He simply wishes that we are the best versions of ourselves that we can be. Anatole is-“

“Careless.”

“No one will tame Anatole,” She said. “He is who he is and he will always be that way. Papa’s touch love-“

“Cruel hands,” Pierre rephrased with earnest. “They won’t change that, only cause pain. As for you-“

“My womanhood does not limit me to what I can take, physical or otherwise,” She snapped. “A slap to the face hurts no worse than the catty words of bored princesses and those do not faze me. We had a disagreement that grew out of hand, it is as simple as that. Remove the pity from your face.”

She was not asking anymore, she was demanding with the same cold clarity he’d seen Vasili order around the servants. It was jarring, though Pierre could not pinpoint exactly why that was.

The look on his face never wavered, just grew grave and pained, and she turned back on her heels. He stopped her with soft gentle words, “I will not allow unnecessary pain and violent to my betrothed or anybody as long as I am here. I owe it to you and to Anatole, who has been a friend. I wish to remain out here.”

“Papa does not dish seconds,” She stated. “If he wished to find us, he would. This is – _was_ the study my mother would escape to when she felt creative.”

“I did not know that.”

“It is a closet,” She stated, plainly. “I am going now, leave my halls.”

“Hélène-“

She sighed, “Yes?”

“Is there – was there any truth to it?” Pierre asked. His voice was meek, and weak, and it gritted against Hélène’s teeth that for all of Pierre’s stature and size, he was spectacularly _small_. “To the rumors, I mean.”

She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes critical and hard, and calculated, and Pierre could not stand them being on him. He did not know if her silence was worse than her bite, did not know if the cause was thought or the truth, or something much worse. He did not know and it make his heart sink in his chest.

Hélène pursed her red stained lips before stating simply, “No.”

“There is no truth?”

“That is what I said, is it not?” She asked. “I have given you no reason to suggest that I am not a woman of my word. I am your betrothed, am I not? Do you think so little of me?”

“I – no, I do not.”

“Then there is your answer.” She lied so effortlessly that even barriers of skepticism crumbled in her presence. He nodded once and relief flushed over him. Hélène felt her distaste for him grow, “Well?”

“Well?” He repeated confused. “Well, what?”

“That is the only question that you are going to ask?” She asked of him. It sounded almost like an accusation, as if Pierre had done something wrong. “You will accept my answer at its face value when you felt enough doubt in your heart to ask the question of me.”

“I did not intend to offend you.”

“You did not.”

“I simply – Okay. I experienced a moment of doubt, I have heard the rumors that your father spoke of,” He admitted. “I have listened to the whispers of the working staff and I – in the marketplace, I spoke with Dolokhov. He, well, he said rather unusual things.”

“Such as?”

“He claimed his companionship with your brother had ceased, though Anatole seemed to know little of that decision,” He stated, shifting from foot to foot. “He told me that the Kuragin name meant trouble and that you are not as you seem.”

She hummed the way Anatole did when he wished to be viewed as thoughtful and then shrugged her plump shoulders, “I suppose he would think that, we have known each other since childhood.”

“I am afraid that I don’t know your meaning.”

“Fedya has always had a crush,” She stated. “it is simple and cute, and he is ashamed of how deeply it runs through him. He is not happy with our arrangement and does wish to put a stop to it.”

The best deceptions were always told in truths, Hélène watched as Pierre’s disbelief fell away completely, “I did not think Dolokhov to be so petty.”

“In matters of love, our actions are dictated by the heart,” She replied. “Do not fault him for crass words, they mean nothing.”

Pierre nodded and told her, “I will not keep you from your brother any longer though I do wish to remain outside the door. It will put my mind at ease.”

She did not roll her eyes but she did relent in a way that she did not think she would have done even that morning, “I am to ready tea for Anatole’s sore throat, he will want it when he is more awake. I will allow you entrance into the room in my absence.”

“Oh-“

“It will put your mind at ease and your feet at rest,” She stated. “And I will have peace of mind that Anatole does not wake alone, he is quite upset. He…he’s always liked you, for some reason.”

Pierre nodded, “I am fond of him as well.”

“You have always been a good friend to him,” She spoke, a small smile on her lips. “That is enough for now.”

Hélène walked, continued down long hallways and did not turn around, knowing that Pierre would keep her brother company. She walked, and with every step taken, she felt bolder, felt empowered. Felt powerful.

She walked on silent feet until she found her bedroom door, she walked through the threshold and called for her servants. She ordered them to ready her appearance and her dress. She said nothing of the bruises. They did not either.

She felt a sickness curdle in her chest, felt an anger flare in her bones like no other, and she understood finally the coldness that sat so heavy in Dolokhov’s brown eyes at the willingness to even common people to overlook what was so evident on her face. She knew they heard the commotion, she knew that was why her eyes remained unmet.

She looked in the mirror as her hair was reset and perfected. She stared at her own reflection, at her father’s eyes and the same clever curl of her lips, as makeup hid the evidence of an unhappy family.

She looked upon her reflection and she sighed, she had always been more of Vasili’s daughter than Anatole could ever be his son. She held his cleverness, held his cruelness with grace and honor.

“Anatole was seven the first time Papa hit him,” She spoke and the servants stilled around her. “Just turned seven, the dirt still fresh on Mama’s grave. We didn’t celebrate his birthday that year, I remember.”

“I do not remember who broke the vase,” She added, her smile as thin as paper. “I remember the sound of dragging feet and a belt on the other side of the door. I remember bleeding welts and Anatole came to me with his tears. I told him that it would be okay, I remember that.”

“I vowed that I would protect him,” She continued, picking the brush up herself and finished applying the blush and powers. “Someone has betrayed what they _think_ my intentions are and my dear Anatole paid a heavy price for it.”

The room was tense, and silent, and no one dared to more with exception of Hélène. She dressed herself in a dress of fur and satin as her smile slipped to something sinister and her voice froze like ice and hail. She watched them and she stated, “I wish to be informed of who that was.”

When no answer was forthcoming, Hélène sighed in a way that portrayed a deep disappointment, “Galina.”

“Yes, Countess?”

“Ready a cup of tea for my brother, go now.”

Hélène’s shifted between the two servants remaining, her oldest and dearest of her help, and she sighed, “Anna, you are dismissed. Marina?”

“Y-Yes, Countess?”

Hélène observed the girl and her nervous energy as Anna slipped from the room, a coldness sweeping over her in a numbing way, “My father is fond of you, no?”

Marina did not say a word and Hélène did not need her to, silence was as good as a confession anyways. The sweeping cold that swirled inside her turned to Russian blizzards at ever excuse that then poured from her lips, every apology, and Hélène’s eyes found nothing but the memories of hands curled around pale necks and a self-satisfactory smile.

She did not think when she swung, only reveled in the sound of her open hand across unexpecting flesh, she did not think anything until she heard the cry. She felt nothing even as she hissed, “You have been dismissed from my sight and this manor, go!”

Marina rushed from the room and nearly collided with Vasili in the doorway. Hélène did not tense, did not feel fear at her father’s entrance. She felt as if blinders had been pulled from her eyes for the first time and she was seeing her father for what he was. He was not an honorable man.

He raised an eyebrow to her neutral face as if they were sharing a joke between them, “What was that about?”

“She betrayed my confidence,” Hélène spoke formally. “She tried to diminish my honor in the eyes of my father, my betrothed, and god knows who else so I dismissed her.”

He nodded once and sat a large bottle of colored glass upon the vanity before making work of the loose strings of the open back of her dress, doing the work of Hélène’s absent servants.

An apology would not pass through either of their lips, they much to proud, but the message was received. He wished to leave the past where it was and move on and she had no choice but to do the same.

Hélène picked up the bottle and observed it, “What is this?”

“Pierre corroborated your story.” All good deceptions were told in stories of truth. “That is not the wine he was referring to but French wine is French wine, I believe he will enjoy it.”

He did not ask of Anatole, he never did.

“Thank you, Papa,” She said sitting the bottle back down. “I will open the bottle when I am wed and share it with my husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite sure if I'm happy with this fic or not. It lacks the fire/ice symbolism but I do like the fact Helene refers to Pierre as a ghost since that is how Dolokhov often views her.


	10. Chapter 10

“Hélène?”

“It is I, Anatole.”

Anatole’s shoulders straightened at the deep grumble of voice and the sound of the door easing shut behind it before he relaxed into the floor and groaned, “No.”

 “I have never seen you in a state such as this,” Pierre noted, a hint of amusement wavered in his voice as if he had not committed himself to it. “With cobwebs in your hair and dust on your uniform, and I have seen you in plenty of unseemly states.”

“Pierre,” Anatole greeted him, rolling to his back under the desk so that he could look upon the brute standing by. “You appear to have grown even taller.”

“Or you have sunk lower,” He replied, his voice still wavering in the way it did when he was unsure on his tone. He did not know if he should be amused until Anatole snorted in goodwill. “Hélène asked me to stay, she is making tea. Would you like help to the couch?”

“I have no reason to accept any help, ever,” He stated defensively. “I am neither feeble or a woman, I do not need your chivalry.”

“I see.”

“I am perfectly well, f-fine even. I wish to remain where I lie.”

“If that is your wish,” Pierre replied and then sat on the dirty floor himself, a distance away from Anatole but close enough to see the uncertainty pass along his face.

Anatole frowned, “What is it that you are doing?”

“Joining you.”

“Why on Earth would a _Count_ wish to sit on grimy floors?”

“Perhaps it is because there is good companionship on that floor,” Pierre shrugged his large shoulders. “Am I bothering you?”

Anatole scratched at the dried blood on his cheek and shrugged, “I suppose not.”

“That is good.”

“I do not need a keeper, Pierre,” He stated in a whine that did not help his case. “It is mere bruises, nothing more. Do you not have anything better to spend your time?”

“Yes, I was planning to read today.”

Anatole snorted once more, “Than I have saved you a death of boredom!”

They fell back into silence and Anatole curled beneath the white linen sheets. Sleep nearly finding him before Pierre spoke what it was weighing on his mind, “How do you know Fedya Dolokhov?”

“You know now that it was he that laid hands upon me, I do not-“

“Indulge me, if you will, I am simply curious.”

“We met when we were children in the marketplace,” Anatole’s lips curled up but he did not open his eyes. “He took my gloves.”

“He _stole_ them?”

“No.” Anatole’s brows furrowed and his eyes opened once more, fixing Pierre with an odd look that he could not make sense of. “Dolokhov is of honor greater than that of any man I have met, possibly even your own.”

“I had no attention to offend. Will you tell me more?”

“I found kinship in his brown eyes and a mother like the one I had lost in his front room,” Anatole remembered. “I gave him the gloves; his family is poor.”

“Oh.”

“We used to play our instruments together,” Anatole continued as if the matters of Dolokhov’s wealth was of no value, just fact. “He is quite skilled on the guitar as I am on the violin. He taught me to play some time ago, though I am not that good.”

“I did not know that.”

“Dolokhov is fierce but he can also be kind if he wishes to be,” He spoke. “He has always been kind to me. He is – _was_ my best friend… That does not appear to be the case any longer.”

“I do not know why,” Anatole admitted. “I sent him away earlier, I fear I angered him but I do not know why. Where is Hélène?”

“She said that she was readying tea,” He answered. “How did you anger him?”

“…It is a personal matter,” Anatole answered only after moments passed and his eyes slid shut once more. He had never been good with secrets, admitting finally, “It was a matter of money, I asked my father for a loan this very morning. Dolokhov does not agree with…”

He trailed off into nothing and rubbed at his throat, clearing it and stating, “I do wish that Hélène would hurry.”

“I will provide you with money that you need, Anatole, you could have asked me.”

“It was not for me,” He stated, his brows knitting together. “Hélène was in need of it, she asked if I would inquire about it as she tending to arrangements. If I had been proper in doing so, she would not have been assaulted.”

“Anatole-“

“Do not tell me that the consequences of my actions are not of my own doing,” He snapped and Pierre was taken back, having never seen the resemblance of anger pass his face before or such ease in accepting wrongdoing. “I do not wish to speak of this matter any longer.”

“That is fine,” Pierre said softly and then asked, “Do Dolokhov and Hélène share kinship as well?”

“Certainly not,” He snorted, his anger lost in an amused smirk. “They are very similar, like the moon and the stars and yet they do not get along.”

“There is ill will between them?”

“I do not think so,” He stated. “They are simply too clever, their conversations are as if they are speaking in biting riddles. It is amusing to see but it is exhausting, I prefer them separate.”

“Though, Hélène has spoken with Fedya often in days passed,” Anatole continued. “They appear on better terms, and worse, their conversations leave Fedya tense for reasons I do not know.”

“Did you ask him of it?”

“I suppose I could,” Anatole mused. “But as you said, we are friends no longer and he is to leave town tonight for some time.”

“He is leaving town?”

“Yes, I do not know where. Is that important to you?”

“I…” Pierre trailed off. “I am not sure.”

 

Hélène’s smile did not falter.

Her smile did not crack into a frown, did not waver into a sneer as her father laid a soft kiss on her bruised cheek, as he petted her pretty hair and called her affectionally his little prince. It did not crumble when he excused himself with business that needed attended to and swept from the room like clouds over sunlight.

Her smile did not weaken once. It did not fall as she was left alone in a room that no longer felt of home, as her cheek ached and her eye burnt, and she felt as if she needed to bathe. Her smile did not falter when she grabbed the bottle from the vanity, did not falter as she exited the room on swift feet, as she took to the servants’ hallways and out the servants’ door.

Her smile did not falter, did not fall, did not feel real but _stuck_ as she greeted everybody she passed. It was there, plastered like paint as she made quick but polite conversation, as she took every step farther from the manor.

Her smile did not fall, did not falter, as she knocked on wooden doors and offered curtsied greetings. Her smile went nowhere until she was lead to the kitchen door and left alone, and then it disappeared forever as she sat the bottle down heavy on an uneven dining table, “Have this in the troika.”

“What?”

Dolokhov’s eyes cut a line across the room, looking up from his soup with surprise and found only the two of them alone. There was only the table between them but it felt as if it was the ocean, as if it was a mere inch. Hélène was unsure which she preferred, “Have this delivered to Balaga and kept unopen in the troika. It is expensive.”

“What is – what happened to you?”

She narrowed her eyes as he narrowed his, and offered him her society smile, “I am right as rain.”

“Your face.”

“Is my face, yes,” She replied, “Offer it compliments or leave it from your observations. I do not wish to be insulted.”

She did not mean for her tone to sound so harsh, cold like winter but brittle like ice in spring, but she was often harsh with Dolokhov. It should not raise any suspicion now.

He did not offer another word, only draining the soup from his bowl and standing to place it in the washing basin. He turned to her with his raised drink and offered her one of her own, “No, thank you. I come only to give you the bottle, I will not stay long.”

He nodded and then without warning, tossed it in her face, “Dolokhov!”

“I have been friends with Anatole for as long as your father has been cruel,” He stated dully, tossing a rag to her. “I know what covered bruises look like and you are not as well-practiced as he.”

Hélène did not need to see to know that her makeup had failed to withstand the watered vodka, only need to see the set of Dolokhov’s jaw and cold winter in his eyes. She found herself angry at the discovery and defensive, “ _Were_ Anatole’s friend if I heard correctly.”

“You did not heed my warnings and now you wish to deceive me,” He stated, not taking her bait. “You may not like me, Hélène, and I know that you don’t but give me the respect of offering better deception. An idiot could have seen through that.”

“And an idiot did.”

“You see now, this is dangerous and stupid, yes?”

“I see now that I have come too far to not follow through.”

“Anatole is the stupid child, yes?” He asked incredulous. “That is what you call him, that stupid child that cannot see the way to his own ruin. A naïve and stupid child is better than what you are.”

“And what is that, Dolokhov?”

“Stubborn and stupid,” He stated. “ _Cruel_ , and stubborn, and wicked just like your father.”

She slapped him without warning or forgiveness but Dolokhov did not waver, just offered her a sorry smirk, “You can see it to.”

“I am _not_ my father.”

“Are you not?” He asked. “He causes pain and suffering to those which he supposedly loves.  He manipulates and uses those he thinks to be beneath him, and that is what you are doing to me, to your brother, to _Pierre_.”

“Do not speak of Pierre to me, you do not know-“

“He’s boring, that is what you said, dreadfully so. He is sensible, and kind, and _boring_ so you are going to ruin your life, and mine, and get your brother hurt in the process if you –“ He trailed as realization overtook his face.  “That is if he is not already.”

She pressed her lips together and offered nothing but crossed arms over damp clothing. Silence was confirmation in itself and Dolokhov nodded to its sad acceptance, “Was it bad?”

“He will live.”

“And you, with the guilt that you are the cause.”

“Shut _up_ , Dolokhov.”

“I will not,” He stated. “I will not because I want you truly and consciously aware every second of this stupid plan that you are the destruction he has caused already and the more that will come. I want you attentive to degrees which are _painful_ that this plan of yours, either success or failure, will end with pain and I want you to know exactly who will suffer the most.”

“I can take whatever my father throws at me even if it his fist.”

“Can Anatole?”

“I will convince Anatole to return to service and he will go, he has no reason to want to stay.”

Dolokhov shook his head and sat back down at the table, wondering how two people that are so close  but could not see who each other truly are. His voice was plain and simple, with a confidence that she hated, “Anatole does not want to return.”

“He will do as I tell him.”

“No, he won’t,” He replied harshly. “I know that you pretend to know everything, Hélène, I know that people often believe you do and that you have deluded yourself to believe the same thing but you’re wrong. You cannot comprehend the complexity and horror or war, the fear that claws at your stomach and her heart until you feel as if you are choking on blood. “

 “You know not what it is like to see horses shot out from under your friends, what it is like to find them bloody and pleading, and dead,” He stated in the way that everything died when winter rolled down from the hills. Hélène felt cold. “I know what it is like, Anatole _knows_ what it is like, and he will not return before he has to because he is afraid.”

“There are things much worse than your father and he has seen them,” He stated. “No punch or kick, or lash across his back will be worse than the stench of infection and the promise of death, you will not convince him to return.”

“I have to-“

“War is out of his control,” He stated. “He can manage the pain at your father’s hand because he believes that it is his fault, you let him believe that.”

“I-“

“See reason?” He asked, it was almost a plea if pleas were incased in ice. “You are smart and clever, and you cannot see that this is our ruin. You stand in the house of my mother and you blackmail her only son, you are to bring shame to this woman and you take her smiles and her kindness, and you lie to her face.”

“You are a woman of _no_ honor, Hélène Kuragina.”

“And you are a man of no choices,” She stated coldly. “You are right, I am my father’s daughter and I hold his cruelness, I have turned it to a weapon of my own and I wield it. I care not about you, only what I will lose if we do not follow through so we _are_ following through.”

“What of what will be lost if we follow through?”

“I do not care,” She stated, tapping the side the wine bottle. “Put this in the troika, Dolokhov, I will see you tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, I can put off this elopement for another chapter. More to come.


	11. Chapter 11

 Dinner was a tense and horrid affair.

It was a show unto itself and not a very good one at that.

It was an act of domesticity that was so grossly artificial and at times, painfully aware of its own unnaturalness for a family so distant and a manor so cold. It was sad in the way fleeting memories of childhood were misremembered with sickly nostalgia.

Pierre was not so unaware as to not realize that it was simply an act put on for no other benefit than his own. Anatole had told him on the eve of his arrival from his abroad services that even in the years before war and distance fell upon them, they rarely took to dining together.

Pierre had remembered the whirlwind in which Anatole swept through rooms, remembered his bag slung over his shoulder and his crisp uniform, and the soft amusement that had crinkled his brow when he asked, “Pardon, mon cher, I do not know the meaning of it.”

He remembered the muted exchange, “The meaning of dinner?”

“With Prince Vasili Kuragin?” Anatole had asked in a tone somewhere between his charming amusement and complete bafflement. “Has he gone sick or just mad? We have not dined as a family since before I could reach the door handles.”

Pierre remembered his soft murmured promised to be there and the smirk, so mischievous and bright, and all too familiar to that of Hélène’s. He remembered now, only in reflection, that it never quite met the eyes.

He remembered the empty chair, and the set plates, and the hitch in Anatole’s ridiculous gait the next day. He remembered how easy it had been to accept the reasoning of stiff backs and long travels, and how he thought very little of Anatole’s presence at ever dinner since.

Pierre swallowed hard, his mouth felt dry.

“I am terribly late, forgive me.”

Hélène had swept into the room on soft feet and pulled Pierre from his musing, offering no further explanation as she pressed a soft kiss on his cheek before taking her seat. Pierre felt himself flush at the unexpected display of affection, Hélène had yet to be so bold.

Pierre had missed Vasili’s words but caught Hélène’s polite smile and her response, “Time escaped my notice, I hope that I did not keep you waiting for long.”

“Nothing that cannot be forgiven,” Vasili replied, there was nothing held in his tone. There was no forgiveness, no aloofness or promise of pain, just the same curiosity that made Hélène so alluring. “We were discussing the war efforts.”

“Ah, nothing to concern a woman such as myself with, yes,” She repeated the words he had so ruthlessly thrown at her earlier that day before meeting Anatole’s eyes with a look that spoke so much more than her mouth did, “Beyond that of a dutiful sister, of course.”

“Of course,” Anatole murmured.

“Has any news came forth?”

“Nothing that you need to worry about,” Their father spoke, breaking whatever silent conversation that played out between them. “Sit and join the feast, my darling.”

Hélène nodded, “Of course.”

Dinner was stilted and played out, like bad actors in dreadful operas, and Pierre felt as if he was the only one that noticed. Every word passed was terse and brief, coded as if they were secrets wrapped and tangled in unsolvable riddles and all the words left unsaid.

Pierre felt lost, felt a frozen chill in his heart and winter sun-like dullness in his soul. He felt as if this dinner was different from any other dinner but also like there was no difference at all. He felt something like an inch in his chest, so intense and clawing beneath his ribcage that demanded that he know it’s presence.

Perhaps, nothing was the same. Perhaps, everything was the same.

Perhaps, he did not know the Kuragins at all, that he never did. Perhaps, he knew nothing of the woman he planned to marry.

There were masks, he realized. They were pretty and porcelain, perfect with not a mark on them, and every one of them wore one.

Pierre supposed he should have known this, it felt obvious now that he did. He supposed that it should not surprise him to find that in the time since Hélène slipped from his gaze and Anatole grew tired of waiting for her return that every bruise that he sighted disappeared from their faces. There were spotless, they were perfect. The only sight of any conflict played in the cut on Anatole’s cheek and even that felt minimal.

All of it was an act, a horrible and false show of a happy family for the benefit of only him.

Pierre felt his stomach grow small, felt his stomach disappear into a series of knots.

He wished that he could escape from that which he knew. He wished that he could escape to his books, to their stories and his studies but instead, he sipped from his glass.

The silence stretched and grew thin between them, and it crackled into a hundred tiny splitters by Vasili’s airy casualness, “Hélène, I noticed that you left the manor some time ago.”

“Yes, I went to speak with Dolokhov,” She answered the unasked question and she did not so much as falter under the harden gaze of her father’s sharp eyes. “I did not care for the rumors brought to my attention of the two of us so I rectified them.”

“What rumors?” Anatole asked over Pierre’s own question of, “How? I mean – if you do not mind sharing.”

“Not at all, my darling Pierre,” She said with a disarming smile and he found himself blushing all over again. “I simply told him that he was welcome no longer in this castle.”

“What?” Anatole exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair and placing his elbows on the table in a careless lack of etiquette. “you can’t – you – what? You can _not_ just do th-“

“It is best that you let go of silly friendships, Anatole. Right, Papa?”

Vasili’s gaze did not wavered between his children as he stated with obvious disinterest, “I believe so.”

“I _don’t_ believe that,” Anatole snapped and froze, his eyes flickering unsure to their father as if to gage his reaction before he straightened in his chair. “F-Father, you mustn’t fall for Hélène’s _delusions._ Dolokhov has been a loyal and dear friend of mine since-“

Vasili’s gaze remained unimpressed and his ears unhearing. The light in Anatole’s eyes dimmed to a hopeless defeat and he slouched in his chair, “You have never liked him for matters beyond his control. It is no fault of anyone’s that he was not borne into title or wealth but Fedya has honor in abundance and-“

Anatole’s defense of his friend was slashed and undermined, and _pointless_. Vasili wasn’t listening as he waved an arriving servant over and told him to speak. Anatole’s trailed off weakly and Pierre had nothing to offer except sad understanding. It was not his place to voice support so he voiced nothing.

“If you will excuse me,” Vasili spoke before standing. “It appears an overzealous business partner must speak with me at this moment, continue dinner without me.”

“But Fath-“

“Hélène is wise, Anatole, you are not.” His voice was hard and commanding, and Anatole shrunk from it, if only mentally. “Listen to her and learn, I am going now.”

Anatole’s pressed his lips together and waited until retreating steps were steps no longer before turning to his sister. She beat him to the punch with a simple statement, “He is no friend of yours any longer, Toto, do not be angry at me.”

“He _is_ my friend.”

“You spoke different words no more than _two_ hours ago, did you not?” She asked. “And Dolokhov repeated them with vigor to me this very afternoon. Hold not to false pretenses and falser hopes, brother, it is unbecoming.”

The cut on Anatole’s cheek pulled down with his frown and Hélène continued, “He is quite rude to you anyways, Anatole, you deserve so much better than that. What of your better friends, Makarin and such? You do not need Dolokhov.”

“Makarin is dead,” Anatole snapped, standing from his chair and running his fingers through his hair. “He is _dead_ , Hélène, drown in his blood. Dolokhov is the only friend I have.”

“That is not true.”

“You cannot tell _my_ friends that they are not welcome here, Hélène,” He snapped, taking up a pace. “I – what if I said that Pierre is not welcome, then? What of that?”

“Do not be ridiculous, your fondness for him would never allow for such,” She spoke, saying nothing of her own fondness. If there was a fondness, at all. “Dolokhov is a menace. You have heard what the generals have said of him, surely.”

“They do not-“

“Anatole, enough,” Hélène said in a soft but firm voice, a motherly voice. Anatole’s eyes narrowed at it and he gritted his teeth but his pacing stopped all the same. “What is done is done, move on.”

“I suppose I cannot imagine why you would understand,” He stated, dropping back down into his chair. “It is not as if you have ever had a friend, you do not know the value of that which you cannot obtain.”

“Dolokhov is a problem for another family, not this one,” She replied in a cold voice. “Stop your sulking, Anatole, grow up. Friendships end as everything ends.”

“Because you have none, do not-“ Anatole snapped suddenly, slamming his hands against the table and raising from his chair. He paused, a coolness seeping into his muscles and a smirk grew across his face, “And where is it you will be tonight, Hélène? Is that not a bag packed in your room that I saw?”

“Anatole-“

“It has escaped no notice of mine that you tend to disappear at times in the night,” He stated. “That you have been spending plenty of time with Fedya.”

“Your implication that-“

“Implications?” He laughed. “ _Implications_ , I know you, Hélène. Does Pierre know that-”

“Quiet!” She snapped, rising from her chair as well. Anatole had height on Hélène but he did not have power, his confidence wavered on his face. “You _stupid_ child! Such rude accusations about your own sister, have you given up all your honor or is simply that you so wrapped in your anger that you lie-”

“Lie, I-“

“What if Father had heard you?” She continued. “What if – if Pierre was as dumb as you think him to be and chose to end this now, do you know what that would do to me? To my heart and my reputation, to Pierre and this family?”

The air was stifled with the unasked question, _what would happen to you_?

“I understand that you are reckless in your anger and that you are upset but do not take axes to those that care as dearly for you as I,” She told him and then sat back into her chair. “Apologize to me, Anatole, and apologize to Pierre. You have tarnished both our honor and that of your own.”

Anatole met neither of their eyes as he took his chair once more, muttering beneath his breath, “I lost my head and the control of my mouth, I meant nothing by it.”

Anatole had never been one for apologies and Hélène should not expect anything more from him but she was angry, and her heart beat like rabbits in her soul. She wanted more, wanted power, wanted him to bend to her will as he always had when she deceived him, “I heard no apology in your words, just justification.”

“Hélène, I do not-“

“No, Pierre, it is the _least_ he could do for such crass words,” She stated, her eyes hard with lust for control as she burnt holes into her brother. Anatole was hers, he always would be, and he would listen.

Dolokhov had _not_ been right, she decided, and if Anatole would apologize tonight than Anatole could be convinced to leave Petersburg, to return to his services and away from cruel hands, “Anatole, we are waiting.”

“I have offered you my words,” He replied sharply, voice high and snapping. “If that is not enough then it will not be for the first time that I have disappointed you, Hélène, I care not for your reputation at this time when I suffer a greater loss.”

“Ease your guilt, Anatole,” She replied, heavy implication hung onto her words that even Pierre felt as if he could taste them. She was asking for apology, not just for crude words and insinuations. She was placing a blame upon his shoulders for the act of their father that left bruises on her face, and she knew, Anatole could not shoulder that blame. “You will feel much better when you do.”

“I-“ Anatole pushed his plate away, his eyes swimming in blue reflective pools. He stood from the table, “I feel ill, I do not think I can continue this meal.”

A coldness more frigid than the enteral winter haunting her heart froze Hélène to the core and all of her desires for power and control froze with it. She had overstepped, she realized now, “Anatole-“

“I offer my sincerest apology for my words and my actions,” He spoke to the floor. “I must go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed Pierre slightly more aware of what is going on, and who doesn't love a little Anatole angst. Things are to follow.


	12. Chapter 12

The snow fell in sheets of ice.

In frigid silence and deceptive softness, it pricked the skin with a hundred tiny needles, it froze the outer walls of the manor and the windows to their touch. It seeped beneath the doors and it invaded her bones.

Russia did not appear the way novelty snow globes in Parisian ship windows thought her homeland to be, was not in the proses they romanticized her wanderlust in their books. It was a beautiful hellscape.

Russia was alluring, and beautiful, and its wonderland would freeze the life from your bones with all the things you thought so pretty. Russia was poetic and just, and harsh, and _tough_. Her people even more so.

They would weather the winter and the war, and she would weather the wait.

No one ever faulted the winter skies for the snow it dropped, for the cold it rained and the sunlight it stole. It was nature’s way, Russia’s way. It could not be changed.

It was not in Hélène’s nature to be a wedded woman, to bear the children and the housekeeping of a man so dreadfully ordinary. It was not her nature to be pretty smiles and warm dinners waiting dutiful husbands, to be a caring heart for a man’s trifles when she could not even care for the man. It was not Hélène’s nature to foolishly believe that marriage was her fate.

She had never had the luxury to play the fool, to leave her head in brighter clouds and care not for reputation or honor but for fun parties and beautiful women. She had always been too smart for it, too clever, groomed from it with society smiles to be family picture perfect, and what did she get for all her sacrifice?

A husband.

She was not running away, she was not a coward but she would not stand to take it. She would not go quietly, would not be complacent in being tied down to the bloated corpse that every ounce of Pierre’s pathetic being. She would not stand for the expectations of married women, for the sacrifices of mind, body, and heart.

She would not take it.

She refused to be beaten and chained, to have her life end to become a woman that she had no interest in being, that she _hated_. If she wed, it would be on her terms, her conditions and her choices.

She did not love Pierre, she did not know how.

She could not breath through the nausea of pretending that she did, could not stomach even the concept. She could not stand the crawling feel of his eyes roaming her body when he thought she not to be looking, could not withstand his stupid attempts to pry into her mind, and the ache of the lust he reeked of.

If she married Dolokhov than she had nothing to cause her worry.

He would not touch her or love her, or feel anything for her other than contempt. He would never cross invisible lines, lay his hands where she wished them not to be, never take what a ring promised. He would not hold her to any expectation because he despised the very depths of her manipulation.

He could never fall in love with her body, could not trust her mind, would never ache in his soul for her touch.

He loved her brother and because of that, he would make this sacrifice.

She was her father’s daughter and people were either useful or used, and Dolokhov was both. He would seal her fate, save her from a life of boredom and childrearing, with his respectable position in high-minded society, with his metals and soldier’s honor.

She would twist scandalous words into that of a love’s triumph, a sad tale of two lovers since childhood and society between them, a husband between them. She would make them fall in love with her fairytale and in doing so, bind them.

False chains of expectations and then they’d both be free.

Dolokhov accused her of selfishness many times and she felt not a thing for it was true but Dolokhov accused her of caring little for those that were effected and it struck like hot iron on flesh. Her scheming was for _him_ as much as they were for her.

Dolokhov was respectable by association with war-time fame, was honorable for his service, and handsome, and well-liked by the ladies. Dolokhov would be expected to marry, would be observed with critical eyes as a suitable husband for many unmarried daughters.

Eyes would be him and whereas Dolokhov had been reserved with his emotions, there no denying that his eyes only ever softened in the presence of her idiot brother. It was obvious to see and society was stupid but not so blind as to not put those pieces together. It would start in whispery words and travel, and the shame would not outweigh the pain that would undoubtedly follow but it would weight heavy.

“Hélène.”

She shifted her shawl so it covered her bare shoulders and her feather-like nightwear. She sighed beneath her breathe but did not turn from the window, “Yes, Papa?”

“What is it that you are doing?”

“I am…” She trailed off, a smile trailing her lips as the grand clock’s chimes echoed through the silence. It was so very late now. “It is snowing once more.”

“I can see that, you are far from any fire’s warmth,” He noted. “Surely the cold has taken your limbs with its ice.”

“It is a sacrifice worthy of such a beauty,” She said. She could feel his presence with every silent step forward, could feel it press against her back with the power of his persona and his odd curiosity.

She did not flinch as his hand rested on her hip, at the icy cold touch that seeped through the thin material of her nightgown, or the way his shoulder brushed hers as he peered out the window. Her voice kept the shiver from it, “How many do you suppose have their warmth stole by Russia’s wonderland?”

“Plenty.”

“I worry for the Dolokhovs,” She said without thinking, it was a sentiment that had passed her lips in the times she felt the need to care for something and could not find anything sadder than the thought of broken bedroom windows. “Fedya is strong and I care little of it but his mother grows weak in age and his sister, always disadvantaged in health. They have always provided Anatole with something that we could not.”

“It matters little now.”

Hélène pursed her lips at the way in which the swirling snow reminded her of the hurt that cracked in Dolokhov’s brown eyes when she claimed his friendship over and the hurt that wobbled Anatole’s voice. Her chest ached with something she had never known, “I suppose you are right.”

“The weather is dreadful, darling, you-“

“I worry that Anatole will follow mother into the afterlife in his quest for a foolish happiness.” Her voice felt as void of warmth as the flurries outside, her eyes did not waver from the windows as she felt him stiffen beside her. “I don’t want inaction to be the reason for it.”

“Hélène-“

“Papa, you need him,” She told him sharply, feeling a boldness that was so natural to her person but had escaped her for most of the evening. “Anatole is a fool but he is a charming one, charming in ways that neither you nor I can be. I am respected and regarded for my poise but Anatole is loved for his gaiety.”

“In these trying times, gaiety is what people need,” She continued. “They want to forget the war and the trouble, and we do not know how to make them do that but Anatole does. You have seen the brightened smiles on people’s faces since he has returned home, I know you have.”

“Together, Anatole and I complete this family’s reputation, in shoes Ippolit could never fill,” She continued. “All is lost if he is unhappy.”

“That view is rather dramatic.”

“I suppose,” She said, feeling a familiar tug on her lips that she often felt when in discussions with her father but it pulled into a frown. Her cheek ached, her heart ached, “Do you love him, Papa?”

“As I love all my children.”

“I do not believe you,” She told him, feeling his fingers tap a beat onto her hipbone, like that of a warning drum. “You treat him harsh.”

She did not know if she should take the action in a threatening manor but she had so little left to lose, “Harsher than you ever treat me, harsher than you treated Ippolit.”

“I only wish for my youngest to be as his elders,” Vasili stated easily. His voice was not yet threatening, Hélène had always known her limits when it came to speaking with proud men. “I wish for him to be the dutiful prince that I know him capable of. He knows that my methods can be difficult for the stomachs of weak women, Hélène, but they are to guide him. You’ll know when you are a mother that a child without love is a child that is not disciplined when they are wrong.”

“You discipline him the most.”

“He is often wrong.” Vasili’s voice held a smile but she did not look from the window to see if there was one on his lips. “He is still young, Hélène, younger than you were at that age. He must be taught to perform his obligations to the proper standard.”

“Is it because he looks of our mother and that you are angry at her for leaving you behind that you hold her darling son to such an impossible standard?” She asked. “Or do you enjoy the pain you see?”

The tapping turned to a hard grip and fingernails dug into the skin but Hélène did not mind as she took the hand in both of hers, holding it between them, “I know it is hard to speak of her so we do not, and I know that you love her as fierce today as you always have, Papa, but Anatole is her creation. You must stop destroying it.”

She looked from their hands to chance a look to her father, his face was hard and blank, and his eyes a blazing fiery inferno. Love had burnt bright, anger more so, but hurt burnt the brightest, and blue, and sad, “Can you see the reasoning that took me so long to understand, Papa?”

“What reasoning is that, Hélène?” He asked stiffly. “What reasoning could my own daughter have that is so bold that you would accuse me of harming my son for nothing more than _enjoyment_ , that would lead you to derive just discipline as a form a cruelty? You accuse me of causing him pain when-“

“You _are_ causing him pain,” She snapped in a harsh winter breath, and she laughed incredulous. “You raise your hands and you curl them to fist, and pound them against his flesh until it is broken or bruised, and you _think_ you cause no pain? That is madness.”  

“You accuse-“

“I am not accusing you,” She told him. “I am _telling_ you what it is I have seen with my eyes after you bruised my face. You look as if I struck you in a physical manner, as if I have offended you. Your skin has never been so thin as to be cut by simple truth.”

“You think your brother is weak and you disapprove of my methods to make him better,” He stated, as if he was speaking to a simple servant. “I am-“

“This is hopeless,” She pulled her hands away, not wanting and unwilling to hold his contact any longer. “You will not listen to me because for all your _teachings_ that I be a clever woman, I am still just a woman and you will always accuse me of caring to deeply for my brothers. You taught me to level my head and I have, you will not listen.”

“I am teaching him all those things.”

“He is afraid of you,” She stated. “And I – I saw the look on your face when you held him by the throat, I saw your enjoyment as his lips went blue. You’re not trying to make him better, you’re trying to break something pretty.”

Hélène had expected it and the heat was not in it as her head turned with force of the slap. She did not waver this time, did not shed the tears that gathered in her eyes from the sting of the cold. She met his gaze, “Did that make you feel better?”

“You are under my roof, Hélène, you live in _my_ house,” He said in a low voice, a threat and a promise, and his hand held seized her by the jaw so she could look away. “You are a barely yet a woman and you bring such disrespect to the feet of your father? You accuse me of breaking my child, of caring not for him but for pain caused. You accuse me of disrespecting the memory of my beloved wife and of being a wretched father as if I have not provided your warmth and shelter.”

“Are you fed, Hélène?” He asked, shaking her when she did not answer immediately.

“Yes.”

“Are you sent to the country and married off to the first wealthy suiter?”

She gritted her teeth, “No.”

“I have not provided you with the means of to live happily?”

“Yes.”

 “And you _think_ you can disrespect me in such a manner such as this? I did not raise you to be like this.”

“No,” She said softly around the tight hold on her jaw. “You raised me to be smart, and clever, and to smile and be pretty, and you raised Anatole to be afraid. I am not insulting you, I wish – I do not like to see harm on my brother and I do not like knowing that it comes from you.”

“I do not want the halls that I grew up in to be as fearsome as the battlefields that his friends die bloody in, Papa,” She told him, easing the hold on her jaw with careful hands until it was no longer there. “I was not speaking with the purpose of showing disrespect. I am worried for my brother, worried that there will be discipline that is taken too far. I worry of what people will say if word-“

Hélène was not prepared when she grabbed by the shoulder roughly and shoved until her back was flush against the freezing window. She could not stop the gasp, the tears that came to her eyes as her head hit the window with force. She could not stop the fear that flooded her veins and sped her heart as Vasili towered over her, his face a sneer.

“I say nothing of the whispers of you and your brother, of you and that – that ridiculous soldier,” He hissed. “Do you think me too stupid to not realize what this is?”

“I have never accused you of stupidity,” She gritted through the tightness in her chest. “I do not know what it is you are think I am doing but what I am doing is trying to show you the _destruction_ of your actions.”

He laughed something chilled and frozen, “Are you not waiting for your soldier to collect you? You have been at this window for hours, watching for the sign, is that not the case?”

Hélène did not show surprise on her face, she did not show anything, and silence had always been as good as a confirmation. Her shoulders ached until his grip, “Did you really believe that you were so clever as to deceive me, Hélène? You are idiot girl, and I will not stand to have my family’s reputation ruined by such an act.”

“I will lock you in your room, bound you and hold you there before I allow such idiotic behavior to ruin what it is that I have built,” He hissed lowly, so close that she felt the burn of his acid tongue. “You will marry Pierre Bezukhov if I have to repeat your vows for you, Hélène. You understand my words.”

“I understand your threats,” She replied, her eyes hard as they met his. His were harder and his hands stronger, and she prepared for any hit for none would worse than his words. “It was foolish to believe a man so cruel and hellbent on convincing all his children to hate him would be willing to listen to the concerns of his daughter."

His grip tightened on her shoulder to an ache so fierce she could not deny it and then it was gone, his presence at a small distance but more distance than before. His jaw was clenched and his words grounded out through his thin teeth, “Count Bezukhov, I trust that you have found warmth in this weather?”

“Yes, of course,” He nodded awkwardly from the top stair, huge even in his pajamas and dressing gown. “I am – I believe that I have misplaced my spectacles and thus misplaced the kitchen.”

“I am sure Hélène can show you the way,” Vasili stated. “It is late, as it is. We should all find our beds.”

Hélène fixed her harsh glare into an unconvincing smile, it was a rebellion in itself and they both knew it, “Of course, I do wish to keep you from your sleep, Prince Vasili.”

She bowed before him in the way that princesses were taught, the way you did upon meeting other royalty. Vasili’s jaw clenched at the petty meaning behind the action, she felt not of his daughter or equal but of a servant and a slave. The meaning was clear.

She gathered her shawl and told Pierre to follow her in no charming words. She did wait to see if he was as she lead him to the kitchen, and then to her mother’s forgotten room to pick up the glasses that he left. He pushed them up his nose and nodded, “Thank you, Hélène.”

She hummed, “Are we done here?”

“Are you harmed?” He predictably asked. “I fear I failed in my obligation to assure you no harm, the moment looked tense.”

She offered him a fake smile, “It matters not.”

“Hélène-“

“It does not matter as I have assurance that it will not happen a thrice time,” She stated coldly. “I do want to ask something of you.”

“Of course.”

“Regardless of any feeling you have of me, good or bad, I wish that you look out for my brother,” She stated. “He is…Anatole. There a darkness to his charm and his smile, and I wish for it not to grow into a self-hate because he cannot please a man that does not wish to be.”

“Anatole is a friend of mine,” Pierre stated. “I would not stand to see harm come to him, Hélène. Is that what the conflict was about?”

She opened her mouth and then closed, feeling for the first time that she owed Pierre, at least, one truth, “No.”

“…Okay.”

She sighed and turned on her heels, “Sweet dreams, Pierre.”

“Hélène,” He stopped her. “What was it that you mean, good or bad feelings? Why would I feel any ill will towards you?”

“We know not what the future holds,” She said softly, in a voice that held secrets. “Sleep well.”

Hélène found her own room once more and she settled on the bed, her head leaning back so that she could see through the window at the flurries behind it. She watched, in the forest in the distance and the road that ran through it. She watched, and she listened, and waited for the lantern light of a troika and her freedom on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, finals. Finals killed me and I wrote this from beyond the grave. Between group projects, papers, and study groups, I've had no time to write so very sorry to all who are still reading this and reading Ruin at the Door. 
> 
> Also, we are getting this elopement on the road, finally.


	13. Chapter 13

Hélène was at the window when the lock turned.

The snow beyond the window continued in its downfall in dizzying flurries, in an icy powder. She stood memorized before it, just watching. Her eyes drifted through the snow to the thinned forest on the edge of the property and the road just beyond that.

She watched for lantern light.

The sound of the tumblers turning and falling into place was a deafening reverberation that boomed and echoed, and shattered Hélène’s cold heart. Her breath shuttered in her chest.

 _“No_ ,” She whispered to the indifferent flurries, her hand clasping over her heart. _“No.”_

“No.” Her voice was shocked into a near silence as she turned from the window on her heels and ran to the door. She repeated the sentiment with volume and vigor as she pulled, and pulled, and nearly ripped the handle from the door. Indignities and strength, it all mattered so little.

The door would not open, it didn’t even budge.

“You – you cannot do this!” She snapped, finding her voice with incredulous anger, with a white outrageous indignity, with a claustrophobic _fear_. “This is not happening, this is – this is entrapment! It is cruel and unusual punishment for wrongs I have not committed!”

“I am _not_ your princess in a high tower!” She screeched, pounding on the door with solid fist. “You cannot lock me away because of your inane paranoia! I am neither a slave nor a criminal, and I resent being treated as one. You cannot do this!”

She heard not a sound from the other side of the door.

The silence was eerie, and empty, and it met her with a cold quiet indifference as if she was merely just irrelevant. She was not worth even a monologue for her captor.

“If I am to be your prisoner for this night or the next than I am due the respect of a response,” She stated stiffly, her voice croaking with the same ache as the burn of her knuckles. It was almost as soundless as her pounding on the door. “Father?”

She pressed her ear to the door and listened with baited breath, “Father, I know that you are there.”

“This is ridiculous, you realize this,” She reasoned when she did not hear a response. “Think what will be said about us, Papa. Think of the whispers, the words. What would Pierre think?”

She felt a streak of desperation flood her veins, “Papa, you cannot do this. Unlock the door and let us discuss what it is that is bothering you. Please.”

“…Unlock the door. I will not ask twice.”

“The notion that I will fall to pieces is a preposterous one,” She stated harshly. “If that is the outcome that you wish for than you will be waiting until the end of the earth. Whatever it is you believe that I have done so wrong to warrant this – this immature behavior than think not, I have done _nothing_.”

“It is an insult,” She swore. “This notion that I have been anything but what you have made me is an insult to myself and one unto yourself. There has been no act of indecency that is a commitment of mine, only one of your own. I refuse to be held prisoner to your – your _stupidity._ ”

“Do you hear me?” She asked, the skin on her knuckles bruising and splitting open with the force of impact against the wood. She did not even acknowledge the pain, didn’t care about it. “You are an idiot, Father. To – to truly believe that you are in the right then this makes sense. You have gone mad, that is what this is. It is madness.” 

“If it is apology you wish to hear,” She continued. “Then you will have to wait to turn over that lock only once I have starved to my bones because I will offer nothing to you for actions that I have not committed.”

She sighed when she was met with not even an irate snort that was so familiar from her father, she received nothing in response.

Prince Vasili Kuragin was like all the Kuragins, short-tempered, vain, and in love with the sound of his own voice. He would not have stood by to hear such insults hurled against his character, least of all from a child of his own, so he was not standing by at all.

She was alone.

Hélène walked away with shaken limbs, stumbling to the seat in the window and the cold that seeped from it. She could have cried at the sight beyond the tears in her eyes and snow in the distance.

Past the trees and on the road, lantern light.

She could laugh, she could cry. She felt a level of sinking hopelessness invade her in the likes that she had never felt before. Her hand felt cold, like ice and glass windows, as the freedom she had held so tight to slipped from her.

She sighed, dropped her head into her hands. All of her planning, her manipulation and her strained relationship with her brother were all for not. It meant nothing when she could not get through the damn door.

He had won.

Her life and her freedoms would be stolen from her and sacrificed for the sanctity of marriage.

Hélène had lost, foiled by a door.

 _No_.

She stood, _absolutely not._

She would not be defeated by too proud men. She would not allow herself to be bested by the likes of a cruel heartless man, by her father and his smugness. She would _not_ marry Pierre.

She threw open the windows.

Allowing the chill to permeate the door and her mind, her thoughts came to her with sharp clarity. Her gloves and her coat were hung in the hall closet but Hélène did not care.

If she could not go through the door, she’d rather kill herself escaping through the window than to be married to a wretched man.

The window was sharp and the snow felt as if it sliced her skin as she sat on the edge of her windowsill, and she waited. She watched the lantern light as it came closer, and then dimmed, and then was shut off. Then she watched shadows, a sole shadow stretched across the ice and she called out, “Fedya.”

Her voice was like a whisper, haunting the air and Dolokhov’s shadow paused and then shifted direction. She could see his wide eyes from her perch on the second story window and she laughed.

Dolokhov did not, hissing, “ _What_ are you doing?”

“I am running off with my secret lover, is that not what this is?”

“Get back inside, you will fall to your death,” He hissed. “If cold does not take you first, you mad woman. What are you thinking?”

“It is the only way, Fedya,” She told him, climbing to her feet on the windowsill. Dolokhov stuck his arms out in a futile attempt to be proactive, his arms would no hindrance if she fell to her death. “Do not be daft, Fedya, and worry not. I won’t fall.”

“Where is your coat?” He asked as she took side by side steps to the edge of the sill. “Frostbite will take you and make your movements sluggish, you will fall. There is a better way.”

“I cannot use the door, I am locked in.”

“What?”

“My father has the funny little thought in his head that I am trying to dishonor myself and my family,” She said offhandedly, her breath coming out in an amused huff as she got a good grip around a column. “No idea where he got that idea.”

Hélène could not see Dolokhov’s face but she could hear the incredulous in his voice, “Your father knows. I _told_ you that he knew!”

“Yes, you’re very smart, Dolokhov, be proud,” She replied sarcastically. “Now, offer me your silence, this is difficult.”

“You’re going to fall to death.”

“I have done this before, shush.”

Dolokhov watched with a stiff jaw and baited breath as Hélène shimmed down the column in nothing more than a nightgown and shawl. He shielded his eyes when she traipsed across the ledge, and he rehearsed what he’d have to tell Anatole if his sister caught her death with a ten foot fall.  

“Really, Dolokhov, I did not expect you to be so weak stomached,” She said when she was in front of him, her teeth clattering and her shoulders shivering. “Let’s go.”  


	14. Chapter 14

It dawned on her suddenly.

“If you do not keep moving, you will freeze to death.”

For no obvious reason, she could not go on. She stopped in snow up to her ankles and soaked into her nightgown’s hem, and she could not move her feet any longer.

Steps alluded her, freedom alluded her. She could not go on for something was _wrong_.

She was frozen in moment, and time, and place.

The snow pieced like a hundred tiny needles and the open slap of a father’s hand. It flurried, and spun, and blocked out the moon and the stars. It stung and cut through the air with vicious intent, and it _hurt._

There was something akin to death in her.

There was something aching and frozen, and hurting. There was something pulling her and holding her, and freezing her to the bone.

She could not move her feet.

Buried in the snow in wet slippers and toes so numb, this was how she would die. Furious and reckless, with a plan incomplete.

This was how she died, so close to the end that it was tragic.

The touch of winter on her skin was painful but Hélène persevered thus far. She _had_ to go farther.

She had planned this and though it did go weary. It was her plan.

She had plotted and schemed, and put herself in danger’s way since the moment her father had declared that he would find her a suiter and presented her with such a pathetic old man. She had planned, and smiled, and welcomed Pierre into her life, her house but she would not allow him to her bed, her heart, or to have her hand.

She had planned a wedding that she would never attend, wore a ring that felt like cast-iron shackles, and she would not marry Pierre Bezukhov. If she could not move her feet than she rather die here on this spot.

She would rather freeze than marry.

She would rather die, frozen to the spot in a nightgown.

“Hélène, move.”

The words froze in the air, snapping at her like the bite of winter wind and the heart of frozen fire. Threadbare gloves snapped fingers in front of her face, _“Hélène_.”

Her voice sounded like it swirled and died shivering on the wind, “I am already so frozen.”

“Then keep moving, _princess_ ,” Dolokhov snapped at her. “We have only traveled a quarter mile and it is still a half mile trek to the troika, Hélène. I will not freeze to death because of your stupid foolishness. Keep going or go back, I do not care but do not stand still.”

He grabbed her arm roughly and pulled so hard that she felt as if the limb would crack like glass, break like expensive china. Her numb feet jerked forward half a step.

She wrestled her arm back, balling her frozen fingers into fist, “Unhand me, scoundrel. Do _not_ touch me.”

“To hell, Kuragina – or do you wish it to be Buzukhova, _Countess?”_ He demanded of her, heated breath freezing in the air. He puffed his chest out imposingly, barked his order for her to snap to it, and commanded in a soldier’s voice as she stood frozen. “What is this game, Hélène? This is not the time for your dramatics.”

No man was intimidating in the face of Mother Nature.

No man could run fear into a heart so cold.

Something was wrong, she could not place it.

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arm. She was not a woman to be trifled and he _knew_ that.

Dolokhov’s face heated red with a blaze she wished she could feel and he bared his teeth to the elements, “Are you mad or simply stupid, princess? If we are seen by the East Wing guards than it is your plan and my head. Is that what you wish for, to stand still and ruin this?”

Something dawned on him and he took a step back, giving her a sickened awful look, “That _is_ your plan, no?”

She asked dully, “To be caught?”

“For all of this to fall to ruin so you are afforded the chance to paint your own masterpiece and – and you wish me to duel your father, for him to fight for you honor after you make me out to be the villain. That is what this is, is it not?”

It was not her plan.

Her plan had been to run, and run, and run from a princess’ expectations and from the sanctity of marriage, from a dull and boring husband. Her plan had been to break hearts miles away, to send for her brother when she could. It was not to stand broken and frozen in the dead of the winter’s night for no conceivable reason.

Was this how she died? With this idiot.

“You wish to dishonor me beyond repair, to dishonor my family, my credit, to endanger my life just to be challenged to a duel for an elopement all your own planning?”

This was how she would die, frozen and alone.

She had been clear with her intention and her plan. She fell from her father’s grace for this plan, she lost her brother for more moments than she would know.

Dolokhov the assassin, the _idiot_. 

Her father would not challenge a duel from a mere disgraced soldier anyways, _Pierre_ would be expected to and Pierre was a coward. Anatole would be next in line and their father would _insist_ on it.

The very thought was preposterous and dumb, and it did not give anybody anything that they want.

She had been clear with her intent but she was a Kuragin, always one for dramatics as she drawled out anyways, “You have always wanted to have a shot.”

“I will not-“

She raised an eyebrow at him, cracking her frozen face. It was not anger that warmed her chest, it was satisfaction. It was _power_.

Dolokhov played smart but he knew little and her father had underestimated her own determination.

 _Hélène Dolokhova_ would be a scorned and powerful woman, saved from a wretched marriage by her own hand. She held out her hand expectantly, “Give me your coat, Fedya.”

“No.”

“I am going to freeze to death before we reach Balaga dressed in only nightwear,” She snapped at him. “Do you wish to have a frostbitten bride?”

“I do not wish to marry at all.”

She shot him a cold look, “You are not a man of many choices.”

“And you are about to be a woman with even less if you do not move your feet.”

Dolokhov stuck his hands into his coat pockets and walked a few more steps before turning and looking at her expectantly, “If you do not wish to freeze to death or for your plan to fail than move your feet. I will not stand around all night because you’ve developed a conscious.”

“I need a coat, Fedya, or an elopement is the least of your worries when you have my corpse on your hands. Need I remind you that my father is _aware_ of your hand in this mess. Your head is the first that he will find.”

“ _If_ they find a body.”

“Do not offer me empty threats,” She told him. “You are an assassin, yes, but you are an idiot in love and a decent man. Decent men are the quickest to disembowel their guts to rid themselves of guilt and Anatole would kill you. It would almost be worth it.”

“This is madness, Hélène. Make a damn decision.”

She laughed, hand falling to collect her rows of pearls and finding none. Her heart stuttered in its beating. They were not around her neck and she could not be without them.

“This _is_ madness,” She told him more subdue, more resolute. “We must return to the manor, Dolokhov. I am in need of my fur cloak.”

“You’re insane.”

“I am a Kuragin,” She answered, a smirk cracking her face up the side, “Of course, I am.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

The Kuragin castle was a cold and empty affair.

It was loveless in wooden floors and high ceilings, long empty halls. It was an overindulgence of wealth and self-image, self-obsession, an overabundance of coldness, and cruelty, and an upbringing chilled and lonely. It was a gross show of power, of self-importance, of the absolute worst of the upper class.

It read of signs of child neglect and child abuse, and cruelty for the sake of cruelty.

Happiness did not live in these walls, it never had. There was more warmth in the cold winter nights than in these halls.

Sometimes, Dolokhov could not blame Hélène for the way she was.

Sometimes, he thought that he should feel _something_ for this scheme. He should feel something more than just manipulated, and psychological tortured, and _wronged._ He felt that maybe he should have felt a happiness, a relief, an honor. He should’ve felt like the knight in shining white armor that Anatole always saw him to be.

It should be an _honor._

He was rescuing a princess in need for a forced marriage, from a cruel and evil father. This was the stuff of fairytales and Dolokhov had never been the good guy in anything, least of all, fairytales.

Dolokhov – who the war generals and his superior officers all thought was too cruel, too danger, thought he enjoyed the war and the killing a little too much. They all thought he was blood soaked, and blood thirsty, and was never ever going to be clean or satisfied – was saving a princess. He was doing a selfless act for a princess in duress.

He was doing it under threat, under blackmail. He was not selfless but _no_ _one_ was selfless, he could still be the hero, the knight.

Fedya – whose father was dead, and windows were broken, and whose mother loved him dearly but knew her son to be wrong. She used to look at him like she could see all the cracks, like she saw something dark and cold, untreatable and frozen, raw and feral inside of him. She saw that he fell in love with a stupid airhead prince, a young and naïve prince that gave away gloves for hiding spots.

If this was a fairytale and Dolokhov was not who he was, he would be rescuing a princess. He would be the hero if the story was read right but it wouldn’t be. It was Petersburg, and Hélène, and he was just the scoundrel that stole away with a betrothed princess.

His mother told him once, _don’t ruin that young prince._

His mother said once, _that poor child_.

She scolded him often, _we don’t bother ourselves with what goes on behind the locked doors of others. It is not our business_.

Their neighbor froze to death one winter when he was thirteen. A pitiful man huddled for warm by a dying fire while they used heavy wool blankets and fur-lined gloves of a prince that was too nice, and innocent, and bruised.

Anatole broke his arm that winter.

He slipped on the ice in the town center, he had said.

He does not know why it was that particular seemingly unimportant memory that struck him with all the firepower and stark clarity of the worst of his wartime night terrors but as they push open the manor’s grand front door, it was all he could think of.

He had no business ever looking behind this door.

It felt wrong.

It felt ridiculous standing here, felt stupid just being here.

If this was a rescue than he had made a grave mistake because he did not belong here. No one belonged here.

Hélène was smart, and awful, and a Kuragin in the cruelest sense but even she had to _know_. This was a mistake. This was wrong.

He wished to run.

He wished to gather the one that he loved so dearly that his frozen heart warmed. He wanted the one that burnt as warm and bright as the sun, who never saw him for his wrongs and never wanted anything but fun, and adventure, and money, and love.

Anatole loved him to some degree and Dolokhov loved him to all of them.

He would get hurt if Dolokhov played his ill-suit role of his pseudo knight in blackmailed armor. It would be Dolokhov’s fault, it would be his direct actions that lead to his closest friend’s injuries.

He couldn’t stomach the thought.

He couldn’t swallow the bitter taste.

He couldn’t _do_ this.

They should have run to Poland when Anatole had asked him to as teenagers. When Anatole had got cold feet, and wanted to turn around, Dolokhov should have grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to follow through.

No one died in Poland, no one got hurt.

There was happiness in Poland, happiness in Anatole but Dolokhov was never going to have that again. He’d freeze to death out of the radius of his warmth.

There was no happiness left for him, for Hélène, for anybody in this godforsaken plan.

They were doomed to their roles, chained to the weight of the unbearable knowledge that Prince Vasili would blame Anatole.

Dolokhov was Anatole’s friend, he was the scoundrel that Anatole dragged home and introduced to his sister. He was the one to invite the solider to a party he was not asked to attend. It would be _his_ fault.

Vasili would beat him. He would beat him for every ruble they lost him in the collapse of Hélène and Pierre’s engagement. It would be blow after blow after blow for each blow to his reputation when the news got around.

Anatole would suffer, and he would die, and there would be no happiness for anybody in all of Russia.

All of that blood would fall onto their hands and Dolokhov would never be able to scrub that clean.

_I cannot do this. I would rather fall to my enemies than hurt my only friend._

_Why can you not see this, Hélène? Why are you ignoring this?_

“You feel it, don’t you?” He asked softly, fresh winter snow soft. He felt buried beneath it, invaded by its ice. “You know this is wrong.”

“Do close the door, Fedya,” She told him dismissively. “The cold will surely attract attention.”

“And what of the ice in your heart, will that too attract attention?”

“You are a comedian,” She said flatly, closing the door herself.

Dolokhov could not and he would not drop the subject. She _had_ to know, “You know that your father is wicked.”

“And Pierre swore to protect my Anatole from harm.”

“You swore to marry the old fool, oaths and promises are that of children and easily broken. What obligation does he have to honor his promises when you are going to break your own?”

She did not answer him.

Instead, she moved across the front hall with a mission.

She moved with a purpose.

“This is madness, Hélène.”

“This is survival.”

He did not understand her, understand this comparison of a marriage to a simple kind man to being led to the gallows. He clenched his hands, “You are sacrificing your brother’s survival for your own. It is not fair, he does not even know you are doing it.”

“We do not have the time or the funds to support bringing him at this time,” She said like it was reasonable, like that alone was reason enough. “I promise to send for him once we are settled.”

“Your promises mean nothing.”

She ignored him, kicking off her soaked slipper and exchanging them for her boots by the door. She gathered her fur cloak around her and pulled her pearls from the inner-lined pocket, putting them on like the world was right again.

He knew that he was frozen, that he was cold and made colder by hardship, war, and effort but he was nothing compared to Hélène.

She was subzero. She was permafrost. She was ice aged.

“You are just as wicked as he is.”

She narrowed her frozen eyes to the point of an ice sickle, and if she did not need him, Dolokhov imaged that she would kill him. “I am a survivor, I am-“

 _Evil_ , frozen, the devil. Hell was a cold place and it carried itself with double strands of pearls around its neck.

“Hélène?”

They both stopped, turned frozen where they stood before their eyes turned away from each other towards the staircase. At the top stood the shape of a large man and big, big hands wrapped around the railing.

Dolokhov could practically hear the ice in Hélène ’s veins turn to slush as she said smoothly, “Pierre, it is late.”

“Yes, I could not sleep. There was much on my mind and I took a walk to clear it, “ He said as he took a step down on the stairs, and then another. He froze as well and adjusted his glasses. “Were you outside dressed like that? You’ll catch death, what on Earth could you have been – oh.”

 _Oh_.

Realization caused his eyes to fade into a bleak summer look and Dolokhov prepared for something so much worse, swift death and the hands of guards. It was Pierre this time to feel the cold, a freezing in his veins that was acutely Hélène, that turned his hands into fists and his fists into ice, his heart into hollow halls.

He bowed his head and he told her in a voice most soft, sad, like the failing to recognize the autumn until it was already dead at winter’s feet, “If this is what you must do.”

There was a beat, and the cracking of shattering ice. Not even Hélène had expected that much, “You – you will not force me to stay?”

“I wish to be your husband, not your own, Hélène. You have made your choices and all I must do is live with them.”


	16. Chapter 16

Hélène and Pierre married on a cold spring day.

It was a grand day of high society women in fur cloaks and woolen shawls and men in nice coats and cleaned shaved faces. The Bezukhov manor decorated to a high degree with flowers and color, and no one said anything to bride or groom about the wisps of cold chilling air through open windows.

The nigh of the elopement had unfolded and unraveled, and Hélène stood frozen and stark in the Kuragins’ front hall. She had said in utter despair, “I cannot follow though.”

She had stood in her nightgown and her furs, with double strings of pearls around her neck and she touched Dolokhov’s arm, “Fedya, I thank you for your services but I do not need them any longer. You may keep the funds for your many troubles.”

She had looked to Pierre with thawing waterfalls in her dark brown eyes and cracked her voice as she played to his sympathy, “Pierre, forgive me. I am afraid that I figuratively and literally got cold feet. I have disgraced my honor and that of my family’s name.”

And Pierre, the sad old crank, had believed her, and gave in, and told her, “That is quite alright. Let me make you tea, you must be freezing.”

The morning after the aborted elopement, Prince Vasili had unlocked the door to Hélène’s bedroom to cold air from an open window and snow melting on the floor. He did not find his daughter, did not find a note.

Hélène woke up that morning overly warm and emotionally numb, in a bed of downy feather pillows and silk sheets. There was a big, big arm wrapped around her waist, the bulk of a large chest pressed into her back, and a beard scratching against the back of her neck.

She shoved Pierre’s arm off her, climbed from the bed, and she met her father’s eyes straight on with her chin held high as she took her seat at the breakfast table.

She smiled to her brother, “Good morning, Anatole.”

“Morning, Hélène.”

Before she had been able to say more, Vasile stated coldly, “You were not in your room.”

“No, I was not,” She replied equally as cold, not wavering her stare from his eyes as she weaved a believable tale, “I do not appreciate being locked up like a fairytaled princess, Father. I had told you that I had nothing insidious planned, I had simply wanted an evening with my betrothed. I refused to have been halted.”

Hélène, who had fed Pierre enough vodka that he passed out before he even thought to touch her last night, smiled as innocently a Kuragin could, “I must thank you again for that wine, Pierre adored it.”

The day after the elopement, Hélène ate breakfast and made plans, and Dolokhov left Petersburg to return to service.

Dolokhov was pretty sure his invitation to the wedding ceremony was a mistake or an ironic joke, and he was not sure what it was that possessed him to accept it. There was some force that he thought was compelling him to show up to the wedding.

He told him that he did not know why he was here, as if he did not know the deep unspoken reason.

He left the manor that night, swearing to himself and his gods that he was going to cut all ties with the Kuragin family. He did not need the stress, the trouble, the shame, or annoyance. He did not need Hélène, he did not even _want_ her in his life.

He could not keep Anatole without her so he could not keep Anatole.

It did not matter.

His relationship with Anatole had been severed severely, broken clean and it did not need mended. It was a friendship that had passed it only exasperation date, one that should have ended a lot soon than any of these irrational feelings cracked throughout Dolokhov’s frozen heart.

He had let the war freeze him over once more, let the blood soak into him and stain him, and he ignored the worried-like guilt that sat heavy in his chest. He ignored the way anxiety gnawed at his guys like the rats did to the dead.

He had come simply to _see_ Anatole, to make sure he was in good health, and that was simply it. He would leave.

The ceremony was exactly like Hélène. It was alluring, and beautiful, and teeming with fake sincerity. Dolokhov could not keep from rolling his eyes at the vows.

He could see the back of Anatole’s blonde head in the front row, and told himself that he was just waiting to see his face, to let talk to him once because he was not raised to be rude, after all.

The reception followed and Dolokhov followed, and Anatole’s bow glided across the strings in effortless flow despite the stiff bandaging straightening two swollen fingers causing him to hold the instrument in an unusual manner.

Dolokhov had overheard Anatole say that he fell, that he tripped over a loose cobblestone in the center of town. Everybody had nodded politely, and agreed that something really must be done about the roads, and said nothing of the fact that Anatole does not travel through the town center for any reason.

They simply urged him to pick up the instrument.

Dolokhov felt stiff in his uniform. He weighed heavy and uncomfortable on his shoulders, and felt restricting. His fingers itched down at his side, constantly checking and double checking that his gun remained by his side.

He met Vasili’s eyes across the room during the first dance, resting one hand on the butt of his gun. He waited for the gauntlet to be thrown down, for challenge to be made for a duel and he waited, and waited, and waited…

Vasili looked away, drawn into important conversations.

“Be merry, mon cher, look to Hélène,” Anatole smiled, coming to stand next to him. He nudged his shoulders with his own, standing so that they were shoulder to shoulder, with a drink lazy in his fingers. There was a carefree lightness to his eyes. “Follow her direction, my dearest, Fedya, and be happy. It is joyous.”

“I am happy, Anatole.”

He had almost been the poor sap to marry the wicked trickster princess. He was quite happy with this arrangement.

Anatole’s lips tilted into an easy smirk and his voice into a low teasing, “It shows not on your face, mon cher.”

Dolokhov took his slight frown and twisted it into an annoyed tilt of his lips and then into a toothy grin that was unnatural and looked psychotic on his face.

Anatole returned it with a bright grin of his own and embraced Dolokhov with a hug almost all-encompassing as he practically folded around him. Dolokhov returned it quickly and too brief with loose arms. He pulled apart first, much too soon and much too late.

“It is lovely that you made it, Fedya,” Anatole grinned, dancing on the hells of his feet. “I did not believe that you would come.”

Anatole had makeup on his cheek.

The foundation of it cracked as his face wrinkled into a smile. Dolokhov could see the powder on his face and the way it discolored on the lining of his high collar. When he looked close enough, he believed that he could see the smudges of fingerprinted bruises beneath the thin powder.

He felt that lifelong flicker of anger in his gut and tried not to frown. Anatole talked.

“I truly believe it, mon cher, Hélène found love in the old crank, found kinship in his gentle heart,” Anatole was saying. “She does seem much happier about the arrangement and things did get much better when you returned to your service. I have not seen her this happy in so long.”

“No, I have not either.”

Anatole’s impossibly wide smile dropped into a small grin, “It is good to see you well, mon cher. I have worried about your safe return.”

“All is well, Anatole, the war is far.”

“As were you,” He replied. “We did not depart on the best of terms. May we speak alone, away from so many prying eyes?”

Dolokhov should have said no. He should have left after his anxieties were laid to rest but he hadn’t. He should have turn on his feet and go but he followed Anatole out of the room instead. He followed him down the hall, and into a room where the door was shut.

Anatole grabbed his hand when he stood in the center, bring him towards the bed and the fiery hearth so to feel its warmth, “Mon cher, you are my dearest friend, I have miss you and I love you.”

“You shan’t tell any difference between lust and love.”

“And you can?” Anatole asked like it was a joke, a lightness forced into his step as he spun on his heels before picking at the buttons on his uniform’s collar.

He shed the coarse jacket material and let it clatter to the floor with all its metals and decoration. He grinned when he turned around but Dolokhov just frowned, crossing his arms.

“Have I unamused you?” He asked.

“Are you going to tell me what this is?”

“There is a-“

“I am well-aware of the status of the war, Anatole, what game is this?”

“There are no games, mon cher, I have simple missed my friend and I wish to embrace him.”

Dolokhov involuntarily sucked in a breath and his spine snapped straight. Anatole had never cared for his words and what implications that they implied.

Anatole did seem to be paying attention, “It is only us, mon cher, there is no barrier between us in this room. Will you stay?”

“…Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I keep killing off Aline Kuragina, sorry. 
> 
> This starts out a lot wordier than I originally planned but it serves the purposed of setting up how entangled Dolokhov is with the Kuragins and his relationship with Anatole. Pierre is definitely in the next chapter. And Helene is most definitely going to be up to her usual no good. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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